


An Angel on Your Side

by Radclyffe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hell, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 26,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29138280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radclyffe/pseuds/Radclyffe
Summary: Sherlock always said while he was on the side of the Angels he wasn't one of them, but perhaps he needs an Angel on his side for a change.Set after Sherlock's return at the start of series three but diverges pretty quickly
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 59
Kudos: 87
Collections: February 2021 Johnlock prompt challenge from ohlooktheresabee





	1. Secret

**Author's Note:**

> I had been playing with an idea of a Sherlock/Good Omens crossover when I spotted 'ohlooktheresabee' s set of February prompts. The first two seemed to fit, so here it is.  
> As usual the prompt fills the last word of the chapter.  
> oh... and there may be a case.

It took a while for Sherlock to understand that he had made a serious error of judgement.

The kind of error that comes naturally when you spend an extended period of time away from home. The mistaken belief that while you are away, whether it is for six months, a year or a decade, that the place you left behind will remain static, frozen in time.

Instead, you return to find an infinite number of mostly minor changes that accumulate to show you just how wrong you are. The hardware shop across the road is now a pawnbroker’s; the branch of Lloyd’s bank on the corner of Lisson Grove has been a vegan restaurant for over a year; the 84 bus no longer goes down the Marylebone Road; myriad changes that disorientate you and sweep the ground from beneath your feet.

People too, they change.

Your landlady is still feisty, but you can tell she’s a little older and a little frailer than she was before. Your tolerable Inspector is greyer and finally divorced, while your tame pathologist is surprisingly happier and has a boyfriend. True, your brother is as pompous as ever but even he can’t escape the ravages of time on his hairline.

Then there is your former flatmate, the only one you would truly call a friend. The reason you had to go away, the reason you stayed away for two years, and the reason you fought so hard to live long enough to come back. He is the one who has changed most of all. Once he headbutted a policeman in your defence, now he bloodies your nose instead. He sits on your sofa, holding hands with his fiancée (petite blonde - _could there have been a greater contrast?_ ) and discusses wedding dates with your landlady; the others crowd round, and you join in.

So, you wear the stupid hat, you flip your collar, and you pose on the steps of Baker Street and smile for the cameras, and all the while your heart (which you never knew you had until you met him) quietly breaks.

You say nothing, to no-one, because what would destroy you, what would finish what Moriarty began and the Serbians continued, would be for anyone to know your secret.


	2. Allergies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a former bookshop in Soho

The sign on the door had been the same for so long that Crowley no longer bothered to read it, he had committed it to memory at least a century ago.

It wasn’t a Tuesday as far as he was aware, nor a Wednesday, and it certainly wasn’t as Sunday. (Crowley tended to take a professional interest in the whereabouts of Sundays). It was well past ten o’clock but nowhere near three in the afternoon, it wasn’t a bank holiday either. There was nothing on, no small miracle required in Rome or Istanbul, no signs or wonders to be performed in Lourdes or Guadeloupe, nothing to prevent Aziraphale from being safely accessible in his shop.

Crowley placed his hand on the door, and it swung open. He was immediately assailed by such an array of colour and scent that he unconsciously took a step backwards that landed him outside again on the Soho pavement.

As the door closed on him, Crowley took the time to read the sign.

_‘I open the shop on most weekdays about 9.30 or perhaps 10am… I tend to close… blah blah blah… However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need to make a romantic gesture…’ HANG ON!_

Crowley got no further with this thought as the door flew open and he found himself staring instead at a flushed and rather flustered angel.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, “My dear boy! I thought it was you. Come in, come in do.” He shepherded his friend into the shop pausing only to bolt the door behind him.

Crowley was rarely discombobulated, but after over two hundred years of visiting Aziraphale in his bookshop the change was making him quite giddy. He had never been so glad to be wearing shades.

For there were flowers, flowers everywhere. There were sunflowers, sweet peas, and snapdragons on the shelves. There were tiger lilies, tuberoses and tulips on the tables, there were dahlias, daisies and delphiniums on the desk. Each one the most flawless shape, the most vibrant colour, the most potent scent.

They were perfect…

They were overpowering…

They were making him want to sneeze, which he did, violently, three times in a row.

“Weren’t there lots of brown things, full of sheets of paper and black squiggly lines?” Crowley asked, when he had recovered the ability to speak. “Or maybe they were red.”

“You mean books?”

“Yeah, that’s right… books, in your bookshop.”

“I had a change of heart.” Aziraphale announced defensively.

“A change of heart. Angel, you have been running this bookshop since the 1790s, it’s your life.”

“Well, perhaps that is the problem, the world has changed, and I haven’t kept up. People don’t buy books anymore, or if they do, they want something I cannot bring myself to sell them. They used to come in here after a first edition of Middlemarch, or a complete Oscar Wilde and I would send them away quite happily with a paperback Jeffrey Archer or a Jilly Cooper. Only last week a person came in and asked for a publication entitled 'Fifty Shades of Grey', I sent them to the hardware store.

“Now they 'download' their holiday reading onto something called a Kind-ley or they listen to a Jane Austen that some movie star has recorded onto a cassette, and it has become harder and harder to fob them off with a PD James. It all became so dispiriting, I decided to surround myself with beautiful flowers instead. Hence the change to the sign on the premises.”

Crowley sneezed again. Aziraphale produced a perfectly laundered cotton lawn handkerchief and handed it to the demon. Crowley murmured his thanks and removed his glasses to dry his eyes. For some reason both they and his nose were streaming.

_Was he getting a cold?_

“My dear boy, six thousand years, and I never knew you suffer from hay fever.”

“Neither did I,” Crowley admitted, “but then I don’t think I have been surrounded by so many flowers since… well, you know… since then.”

“It does seem rather ironic,” Aziraphale observed, “especially as it was your lot that invented them.”

“Invented what?” Crowley enquired.

“Allergies.”


	3. Storm

Crowley narrowed his eyes and fixed Aziraphale with a hypnotic stare. It was a hard look to pull off when your eyes were red rimmed and weeping but he managed it.

“You’re up to something.”

Aziraphale, who had temporarily gained the upper hand during Crowley’s fit of sneezing instantly became flustered again.

“Really, Crowley, you wound me.”

“Don’t try that hurt puppy act on me, I have known you for over six thousand years too. You wouldn’t turn your back on bookselling, not without a strong incentive in order to become a…”

At this point, Crowley swivelled his head around until his eyes, still sore and bloodshot, alighted on a small stack of cards amongst the flowers on the desk behind of him. He grabbed the top one and read aloud.

“ _A. Z. Fell – Florist, Heavenly Flowers for Earthly Occasions_! Really Angel? Was that the best you could do?”

“I was pushed for time, and anyway what is wrong with it? And what is wrong with being a florist? You like plants.”

Crowley’s reign of terror over his houseplants was notorious; he didn’t exactly like them, rather he regarded them as a necessary evil, providing a focus for his demonic energies. Much safer all round, but that was not an area of his psyche was willing to explore, especially in the presence of an angel.

Crowley did not allow himself to be diverted.

“You’re up to something, you are not fooling me. Now… spill the beans.”

Aziraphale looked defiant for a moment, then shrugged and sighed. He looked around the empty shop as if expecting to find eavesdroppers hidden amongst the foliage. Despite satisfying himself that he couldn’t be overheard he still lowered his voice to a whisper.

“You are right, as ever…”

Crowley could never resist the opportunity to gloat, “I knew it!”

“Oh, be quiet Crowley, and listen. It concerns a man.”

The demon smirked and opened his mouth to speak again but Aziraphale didn’t give him the chance.

“Trust you to take that the wrong way, there is nothing of that sort involved. It is just that he is rather special. He likes to think of himself as difficult and antisocial but really, he is quite sweet, though he would be horrified to hear me say so.

“He is not one of us, but he has done a bit of work for our side in the past, a lot of work in fact and I rather think we owe him a return favour. 

“He has been through a great deal recently. He was dead for two years which really takes it out of you. Now he is back, here in London, injured, he was tortured in Serbia amongst other things, and suffering from PTSD and a little bit of withdrawal although we will draw a veil over that. He is lonely and alone in a flat which he used to share with his best friend. The same best friend that he died to save and whom he is quite in love with if he could ever bring himself to admit it. To top everything, this friend has become engaged to a totally unsuitable young woman, although he has not realised it yet… the unsuitability aspect,” Aziraphale added quickly, “the friend is aware that he is engaged. I honestly believe without an intervention then something quite terrible will occur.”

“Grief!” Crowley exclaimed, when the angel finally let him get a word in edgeways. “It sounds like one calamity after another for this human, a perfect storm.”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale replied, “that is exactly what it is… a perfect storm.”


	4. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baker Street

Sherlock pulls himself together.

Despite the references to Billy Kincaid and Gavin, designed to give John the opposite impression, Sherlock does in fact know what a ‘best man’ is. There was a case a few years ago that concerned an impoverished peer, a Russian heiress and St George’s, Hanover Square.

The distraction ploy is unsuccessful, John makes a pretty speech and asks him anyway.

Sherlock plays for time, he blinks, alarmingly and at great length. It is a tactic he first adopted as a child when asked to do something he was particularly loath to do, such as his geography homework, or to be good for Mycroft while his parents were out.

But John is not Mummy, he does not snap ‘oh for heaven’s sake Sherlock’ or tell him to ‘stop that this instant’, instead he waits patiently for the blinking to stop. Which it does, when Sherlock begins to worry that he will permanently overstrain his orbicularis oculi and levator palpebrae superioris muscles.

John smiles and licks his lips a little in the old, heart-breaking style and finally calls Sherlock his ‘best friend’ and Sherlock’s resolve collapses like an overcooked soufflé.

_I have survived far worse,_ Sherlock thinks, as he looks at his friend’s open, expectant face. _Addiction and withdrawal, dishonour and despair, exile and torture… I will survive this._

So, Sherlock nods his assent to the role and all that it entails.

After some thought Sherlock makes fresh tea and John produces a list. It seems that it is too much to hope that the happy couple will favour a quick trip to the registrar’s office, it appears that the bride-to-be requires what John refers to as ‘the works’. So, there are copious arrangements to be made, cake to try, suits to be measured for, guests to be vetted…

“Invited, Sherlock, the word is invited not vetted.”

John works his way down the list, champagne, bridesmaids, flowers, and Sherlock cannot help but be drawn in. He is already building an extension in his Mind Palace for the minutiae of John and Mary’s wedding.

John falters and the silence causes Sherlock to turn his attention to his friend. He deduces that John is battling with another request, something far more momentous than anything he has said so far. Sherlock smiles encouragingly. 

Startled by the detective’s grim expression, John hurries on.

“There’s something else, I wouldn’t bother you, only Mary has her heart set on it, and you are the only person I would trust…”

Sherlock is a mixture of curiosity and dread.

“Go on.”

“Only I know you know how, Mrs H let it slip once, that you did it a lot when you were younger…”

Sherlock knows what is coming next, and would do anything to avoid the inevitable, but John soldiers on, oblivious to the pain he is causing his friend and asks.

“Do you think you could teach me to dance?”


	5. Choose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The backroom of a shop in Soho

Crowley and Aziraphale had repaired to the backroom of the ~~bookshop~~ florist’s away from the diabolic flowers and their fiendish pollen. Aziraphale had considerately spirited away the worst offenders but Crowley’s eyes still stung, and he continued to feel that he was mere seconds away from another humungous sneeze.

Crowley was secretly pleased to see that Aziraphale’s little kitchenette had been largely taken over by the most precious of the angel’s collection of books; a clear indication, at least he hoped, that the foray into floristry was merely temporary and a means to an end. Quite what that end was, he hoped to discover over a glass or two of Aziraphale’s excellent Châteauneuf du Pape.

It took until they were halfway down the second bottle for Aziraphale to begin to confide in the demon, then Crowley couldn’t get him to shut up. Personally, he did not have a great deal of time for humanity and this detective sounded a particularly obnoxious specimen despite Aziraphale’s protestations to the contrary. It wasn’t until the wine had loosened his friend’s tongue sufficiently for him to let slip the human’s name that Crowley sat up and took interest.

“Holmes? Did you say Holmes?”

“Yes, Sherlock Holmes. You know him?”

Crowley didn’t but said he knew the brother, and then remembered something else. “One of ours… little Irish fella, couple of years ago, requested an intervention…”

“Oh, Crowley, please tell me the request was denied?”

“Never reached committee stage. Turned out the human was more than capable of achieving all he wanted without assistance… as far as I know…”

“He’s the reason my poor Sherlock is in the pickle he’s in.” Aziraphale sounded almost tetchy.

“Really? Seemed rather innocuous at the time. I wonder what happened to him?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and then answered in a surprisingly firm voice for one who was usually so genial, “he went the way of all flesh;” leaving Crowley in no doubt that the topic was closed.

Crowley let his mind wander while Aziraphale kept talking, he wasn’t entirely happy that his angel was so taken with a human being, usually he was only interested in fine wines, fabulous food and first editions. The soldier didn’t sound much better, short on charm, temper and stature as far as Crowley could make out. He couldn’t see why, if Aziraphale was so determined, he couldn’t just persuade this Sherlock to fall for some other bloke, (although technically anything to do with love came under the cherubim’s remit, having taken over from Cupid in the fourth century), it would make things an awful lot easier and then Aziraphale could go back to being a bookseller and Crowley could have him all to himself. He said as much to the angel, leaving out the last bit.

“The heart has its reasons that reason cannot comprehend.” Aziraphale replied with a sigh.

“Isn’t it rather late in the day, with the soldier being engaged and all that?” Crowley asked, trying to sound interested for his friend’s sake.

“It is never too late until the ring’s on the finger.”

“Or the bun’s in the oven.” Crowley quipped and then rather wished he hadn’t when he saw Aziraphale’s horrified expression.

“Oh, she wouldn’t, would she? Tell me she wouldn’t.”

Crowley shrugged; he had quite a high opinion of what human beings were capable of.

“Then there isn’t a moment to lose!” The angel began hurriedly to clear bottles, glasses and other debris from the kitchen table, vaporising the clutter as he went along, “we have to make a plan.

“John Watson is vital to Sherlock’s happiness, but engaged to Mary Morstan. We are going to have to make him choose.”


	6. Power Outage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When principalities plot...

Over the past six millennia Crowley had become rather fond of his angel. They had worked together on more projects than he could remember, though nothing could compare to _The Big One_ , as Crowley like to call it, when together they had taken on the forces of both heaven and hell and triumphed. He was not one for sentiment but at the same time, it saddened him to see Aziraphale fretting about the detective.

Crowley sobered up and sat attentively as Aziraphale fumbled through a number of increasingly outlandish schemes to make the obtuse Dr Watson recognise the error of his ways and fall for the charms, and into the arms of his former flatmate, Sherlock Holmes.

A pen flew across the notepad on the table as Aziraphale elucidated his ideas, unfortunately Crowley persisted in finding flaws in each and everyone of them. _That was the problem,_ Crowley thought to himself, _Angels never thought strategically._

Aziraphale ran out of steam and Crowley took advantage to make a few observations of his own.

“What I don’t understand is, if this doctor is so perfect, why Sherlock didn’t snap him up already?”

“The dear boy, not really his area, and he rather snubbed the poor doctor’s feeble attempts at flirtation and as a result Dr Watson put up his defences, and they never got back on track. Sherlock was quite resigned to their being no more than friends for ever, but then he died and when he returned, he found his only friend had moved on, so to speak.”

Crowley contemplated this statement for a moment. He didn’t have friends, only one. He tried to imagine how he might feel if that friend suddenly took up with someone else. Not that angels, even fallen ones went in for that kind of thing, or at least he didn’t, on reflection he rather thought Aziraphale might, if the circumstances were right. It was not a comfortable thought and Crowley began to have an inkling of just what Sherlock Holmes was going through.

“So, what was this friendship like then, in the good old days, before it all went to Hull in a handcart?”

“Tremendous fun, there were clients and cases, and running off after criminals, and Chinese takeaways and crap television in the quieter times. Not perfect, there was plenty of bickering too, slammed doors and screeching violin solos at two in the morning but their squabbles never lasted long. Dr Watson drifted in and out of relationships with women, as if to make a point, but none that lasted either.

“But with Sherlock away, and Dr Watson completely bereft, this woman had a chance to become a permanent fixture.”

“Well, there you are then, that’s your answer. You need to get this Dr Watson back on cases with your detective, show him what he is missing.”

“I have already tried that, Crowley, but to no avail. I fear that Ms Morstan is cleverer than Dr Watson’s usual choice of girlfriend, and rather than giving him a hard time for going on cases she tends to join them. As a result, there is very little opportunity for Sherlock to spend time with his friend alone, and at the end of the day it is Dr Watson and Mary Morstan who go home together.

“She displays considerably more tenacity too; they are engaged remember and planning a wedding… Plus there is something about her, something I cannot quite put my finger on…”

Aziraphale’s voice trailed off, _there was something, and it frustrated him, that he, of all principalities with the powers at his disposal, could not identify._

“Then can’t you get rid of her… No not like that,” Crowley added quickly when he spotted the return of Aziraphale’s shocked expression, “send her out of London for some reason. I know, on a course, humans are always going on courses.”

Aziraphale jumped up and the pen started writing again furiously.

“Better still, let’s send Sherlock and Dr Watson away. We’ll find them a nice tempting case in the middle of nowhere with plenty to keep them occupied, and a fully booked hotel with only one free room… and only one bed… and a snowstorm, that should do the trick.”

Crowley wasn’t entirely convinced of the plan, but thought his angel needed some encouragement.

“Excellent,” He said looking round for another bottle of the Châteauneuf du Pape, “and for good measure, I’ll throw in a power outage.”


	7. Cereal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case takes the boys to countryside... what could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Sunday, it's cold, it's time to write casefic

The Boscombe Valley Hotel hardly merited the name; it was a perfectly serviceable village pub whose previous owners had at some point in the 1970s, built an ugly single storey extension containing six additional bedrooms in the hopeful anticipation of attracting tourists. This optimism had been misplaced, the village had no features of interest and was too far off the beaten track for the hotel to attract anything but limited passing trade. In addition, the extension had been built cheaply, and on land that was prone to flooding in the event of a wet winter, which the area experienced nearly every year, including this one.

Fortunately, the pub’s original three bedrooms were unaffected, fortunate as the owners had had a sudden run of bookings, possibly due to the murder of a local resident. In the small single was Detective Inspector Somersby of the Herefordshire CID, in the twin were two additional police officers and the remaining double had just been taken by a Mr S Holmes, who it turned out was accompanied by a Dr J Watson.

******

Sherlock had seen very little of John since the momentous visit to Baker Street, when he had been asked to be the doctor’s best man, and when he had it had been in the company of his fiancée. The wedding was still some months off, the initial suggestion of May had been deferred by the newly engaged couple finding it impossible to secure a venue for the reception. The wedding was now due to take place in August.

The fine details of the day were still very much in the planning stage, Mary seemed to have very strong opinions and John seemed quite happy to leave it to her. He had done his bit in the selection of the engagement ring, and now all he had to firm up was his and Sherlock’s suits. John’s idea of a quick trip to Moss Bros to hire something suitable had been vetoed immediately by Sherlock who had never worn a prêt-à-porter suit in his adult life (except in disguise and not always then) and wasn’t about to start now. He arranged an appointment at his tailors and invited Mycroft round to play _Operation_ for the express purpose of purloining one of his credit cards.

After the first fitting, John, who had a few days off work, came back to Baker Street ostensibly to catch up with Mrs Hudson, but in truth because he was anxious to start the dancing lessons. He was certain that the extra months he now had in which to practice, they were still unlikely to be enough to prevent him making a fool of himself on the day.

Once in 221b, John quickly fell back into the old routine of making tea while Sherlock checked his emails.

“What is it?” John asked, coming back into the sitting room with the mugs and recognising the look on the detective’s face.

“Murder.” He swivelled the laptop round so John could read:

_Dear Mr Holmes_

_I am in desperate need of your assistance. My dear friend Paul Cloete has been arrested and remanded in custody for the murder of his father, André Cloete. The police seem to think they have an open and shut case and are not looking for anyone else in connection with the murder. I am convinced of Paul’s innocence. I have known him all my life and I know that he does not have it in him to harm anyone. I have attached the report from the local paper which gives details of the inquest, and some notes on the investigation so far._

_Please come at once, if you let me know when you are arriving, I will book a room for you at the Boscombe Hotel._

_Kind regards_

_Alice Baker._

John opened the attachment and quickly skimmed the newspaper report. His face took on a wistful expression.

“She’s obviously in love with the boy, so only sees his good side. Will you go?”

“I think I will, I have nothing else on at present, and it is so difficult not smoking. It would give me a change of scene; I would have to stay over.”

John looked surprised, Sherlock rarely complained of being in London, but perhaps he had changed, he had been through a lot in the past few years. _A couple of days in the country, a village pub and a murder, that took him back._

His thoughts must have been apparent, as Sherlock suddenly said, “you wouldn’t care to come with me? There is a train from Paddington at 14.49.”

John was tempted, he was on leave, it would be good to spend some time with Sherlock, he was conscious that he had not seen much of his old friend since his return and more, it would give him a break from the wedding planning.

“I would have to clear it with Mary.”

“Naturally.”

At that moment John’s phone buzzed, he took it out of his pocket and read the incoming message.

**Packing 4 u. Do u want ur Aran jumper or the navy 1? xxx**

John groaned.

******

It had been reasonably pleasant afternoon when they had left London but by the time the train reached Reading the skies had turned grey and it was raining. The train was quiet, Sherlock was busy on his laptop, no doubt investigating everything he could find about the death of André Cloete. Molly had tracked down the autopsy report for Sherlock who had forwarded it to John who was reading it with interest, it appeared that the deceased had been struck from behind.

“Unusual name.” John commented when Sherlock briefly looked up, “French?”

“South African.” Sherlock replied and turned his eyes back to his screen.

At Oxford the only other occupants of the compartment got out and Sherlock, who had successfully obtained the transcripts of the inquest from the police records, began to fill John in with the facts of the case.

“André Cloete was a tenant farmer on the Boscombe Hall estate, which is owned by Jack Baker, the father of the Alice Baker. Both Cloete and Baker were originally from South Africa but like many others they left after the change to black majority rule. Baker seems to always have had money and had been prudent in getting out of the country with his fortune intact. Cloete less so, but Hathaway Farm was a good one, and he had done well. Both men were widowers with one child, and while it wasn’t clear if they had known each other before, the fact they were compatriots in a new land seemed to have thrown them together.

“Interestingly, Jack Baker was called to give evidence at the inquest, but he was excused on medical grounds.

“On the day of the murder André Cloete had walked up to a stretch of water known as Boscombe mere that bordered the edge of his farm with that of the estate. Crowder, that’s the gamekeeper at Boscombe Hall, was in his garden and saw Cloete walking down the lane towards the mere around three o’clock. His son Paul is a student at the Agricultural College in Cirencester, and away during term time so Crowder was surprised to see him walk past, with a rifle under his arm, just a few minutes later. 

“Boscombe mere is surrounded by trees and quite densely covered, but it serves as a short cut to the village for those who live on the estate. Crowder’s daughter had just got off the school bus and was cutting through to the Lodge where they live, when she overheard the two Cloetes arguing. She told her father when she reached home but he thought nothing of it, according to his statement ‘it was nothing new, they were always at loggerheads’.

“A few minutes later Paul Cloete appeared, minus the gun and his cap, running towards the Lodge, where Crowder was still outside in his garden. He cried out to Crowder that his father was dead by the mere and turned to run back. Crowder, who is not a young man, ran after him. When he saw the body, he knew there was nothing to be done, but he called an ambulance and the police.”

Sherlock’s narrative was interrupted by the need to change trains at Worcester. The rain had turned to sleet, and it was cold and miserable. John went into the station café and bought them both tea while Sherlock huddled in the waiting room. Fortunately, it was not a long wait and they were soon on the local train to Great Malvern. This was crowded and Sherlock, who was never at his best on public transport drew into his coat as if to protect himself from the onslaught of sensations from being surrounded by so many people.

At Great Malvern, they found a taxi to take them the seven miles to Boscombe, it was no longer sleeting, instead fine flakes of snow were falling, glinting in the lamplight.

“It won’t settle.” John said optimistically, watching the flakes dissolve as they landed on the wet road.

“Will already be ruining the crime scene.” Sherlock answered morosely as the car drew up outside the Boscombe Hotel.

******

He supposed the receptionist, Lilith according to her name badge, was trying to be helpful. It was hardly her fault that the rooms in the hotel’s extension were closed for renovations following a recent flood. Or that the twin room had already been commandeered by Herefordshire police, or that the booking made by Miss Baker had not mentioned that Mr Holmes would be accompanied by his partner.

“Colleague.” John corrected swiftly.

“It really is a lovely room; we like to think of it as our Honeymoon Suite. It has an en suite, and a mini bar, tea and coffee making facilities, even a trouser press, and the most beautiful view of the Valley in the hotel…”

John gave up and went back to the room on the pub’s second floor. It was a lovely room, clean and spacious, newly decorated… and with a ruddy great double bed in the middle of it.

Sherlock was much more pragmatic. “You can have the bed,” he said, taking a suit out of its carrier and hanging in it in the wardrobe, “I never sleep during a case.”

John who had lived with Sherlock for two years, knew that this was not in fact true. Sherlock did fall asleep, often through exhaustion, during cases, however this was not likely to be one of those occasions.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now, I expect you will be wanting to eat so we will try the restaurant here, and where I imagine we will find Inspector Somersby.”

******

After a surprisingly good meal in the hotel, which even Sherlock had eaten, and a profitable discussion with Somersby (whom they had worked with before on a case concerning a donkey, £3.3 million of stolen Spanish antiquities and a drag artiste called Bertha O’Nation) over a couple of pints, John called it a day and went to bed. He left Sherlock in the residents’ lounge, firing up his computer to prove some point or other, possibly relating to the case.

He sent Mary a quick goodnight text, and after using the bathroom tucked into bed. It really was comfortable, with scented linens and the fluffiest duvet. It was vaguely disorientating to be on his own after so many months of sharing with Mary but deciding to make the most of it he spread himself diagonally and swiftly fell asleep.

******

John woke with a start, and it took a few seconds for him to know where he was. The bedroom which had seemed so comfortable the night before was eery in the dark, despite the ominous light that was filtering through the curtains. He pulled an arm out from under the covers, the air was frigid, and reached for the light switch above the bed. Nothing happened.

“The electricity is off,” Sherlock’s voice emerged out of the gloom. “So is the Wi-Fi and I can’t charge my phone.”

“What time is it?”

“Just gone five.”

“Why is it so light?”

“It’s snowed, heavily, all night.”

John lay in the bed feeling slightly guilty that he was at least comfortable and warm while Sherlock was sat in the chair, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. He supposed he could offer to top and tail?

Sherlock solved that dilemma by announcing he was going to see if there was anyone about.

“Breakfast at seven.” He said as he left the room.

John dozed on and off for an hour or so before getting up, he had an unpleasantly cold wash, before heading down to the restaurant for breakfast. Looking out of the windows he could see where the snow had drifted against the walls of the hotel, it looked pretty deep in places.

The kitchen staff were doing their best with oil lamps and a gas ring, so there was at least a cup of tea, but anything hot was off the menu. 

_So much for a Full English,_ John thought disappointedly, helping himself to the cereal.


	8. Sceptical

Sherlock had persuaded DI Somersby to allow him to visit the scene of the crime, and to talk to Matthew Crowder, the gamekeeper and also to his son and daughter who had given evidence at the inquest, and who were conveniently off school due to the snow. John went with them, glad to get out of the icy rooms of the hotel, the warmth of the police land rover was very welcome indeed.

Crowder was polite and answered Sherlock’s questions almost verbatim to the evidence he had given the police; his daughter Patience confirmed that she had seen Paul arguing with his father as she walked through the woods. Her brother, Robbie, had been some way behind her on the walk from the school bus, having called in at the village shop before heading home but he confirmed that he had heard André Cloete greet his son although he hadn’t seen him.

“What made you so sure then that Mr Cloete was talking to Paul?” Sherlock asked.

“Because of what he said.” Robbie replied.

“Which was?”

“He said ‘Howzit’, like he always did to Paul.”

******

They left the warmth of the gamekeeper’s cottage and walked down the lane to the place where André Cloete had died. As Sherlock had feared, there was little left to be discovered from the site, what hadn’t already been destroyed by the heavy-footed constabulary had been obliterated by the snow.

DI Somersby had arranged for Sherlock to speak to Paul Cloete by video link to the prison where he was being held. The lack of electricity at the hotel now meant that they now had to find another way to do this and Alice Baker had agreed to let them use the Wi-Fi at Boscombe Hall, where the power supply was unaffected.

Alice greeted Sherlock and John warmly in notable contrast to her reception of the Inspector. She showed Sherlock and Somersby into a small study with a desk and a computer, but John, as he had been primed by Sherlock followed Alice into the kitchen.

Alice Baker was a slightly built, dark haired young woman of around nineteen. She was obviously under a considerable amount of strain, as demonstrated by the dark shadows beneath her eyes and the way she nervously plucked at her clothes and bit her nails.

Over a cup of tea, John put on his most doctorly voice and asked for her take on the events.

“Do you know why Paul wouldn’t say why he argued with his father?” John asked, as Sherlock had told him.

“I think it was because they argued about me… You see Dr Watson, Mr Cloete was determined that Paul and I should get together, to get married that is, in time.”

“And you were not keen?” 

“I’m nineteen years old, Dr Watson, I have my whole life ahead of me… and besides, I have known Paul since I was a baby, he’s like a brother to me, and besides although my father liked Paul, he was dead set against anything more than friendship between us, and told me so, often.”

“And what did Paul make of this?”

“He felt the same.”

“Then why was his father so adamant that Paul should do something against his inclination?”

“Money, Dr Watson, it was all about money. My father owns this house, this estate and quite a few of the properties in the village. He is a very wealthy man, and I am his sole heir. Whereas Mr Cloete is, I mean was, only the tenant of his farm.”

“Speaking of your father, I understand that he was too ill to attend the inquest?”

“Didn’t they tell you?” Alice exclaimed, “He suffered a stroke the day after Mr Cloete died, he has been in the cottage hospital ever since!”

******

DI Somersby had left Sherlock to speak to Paul Cloete alone, and was marking time in the hallway when John came out of the kitchen with Alice. A few minutes later Sherlock joined them.

Alice immediately began to speak to Sherlock, repeating much of what she had told John, while extolling the virtues of Paul Cloete.

“We have known each other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too kind-hearted to even hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him.”

“I hope to clear him, Miss Baker,” Sherlock replied. “You may rely upon my doing all that I can.”

“But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he is innocent?”

“I think that it is very probable.”

Sherlock gave the young woman a long and appraising look that might have been misinterpreted by anyone who didn’t know him, John however could tell that he was deducing.

“Tell me, Miss Baker, is your father lucid? Would it be possible to visit him?”

Alice hesitated, “He’s not to be put under any strain but at the same time I am sure he would do anything to help Paul. I am about to go to the hospital to visit him. I will let you know once I have spoken to him.”

“Very well, Miss Baker, we will return to the Boscombe Valley Hotel and await your call.”

******

In the boiler room tucked away in the oldest part of the hotel, behind a door marked ‘staff only’, the Acting Manager, Mr Fell and the temporary receptionist Lilith were discussing the success of their campaign so far, or rather the lack of it.

“Bit of a wasted effort, honeymoon suite, king-size bed, goose-down duvet and linen sheets and your detective spends the night in a chair in the lounge. Didn’t even go to bed when I killed the electricity.”

“Well how was I to know that he does without sleep when he is on a case?” Aziraphale protested.

Crowley agreed that this was perverse behaviour; _surely one of the few benefits of being human was the pleasure afforded by sleep?_

(It might be supposed that angels, particularly fallen ones do not sleep – this was not true in the case of Crowley who enjoyed sleep immensely. He had in fact passed almost the entire nineteenth century asleep, apart for a brief time in 1832 when he got up to use the lavatory.)

“Blimey, it’s cold in here.”

Crowley scowled at the generator and it sprang into life. He glanced at his angel’s despondent face and felt the urge to do something about it.

“Well, look on the bright side, they’re not likely to be heading back to town in this weather, and if he solves the case before nightfall…”

Aziraphale face lit up, “You are right, if we can just nudge him in the right direction, that might do the trick. Thank you, Crowley, perhaps all is not lost, after all?”

Crowley nodded his encouragement but deep down he couldn’t help being sceptical.


	9. Velvet

John, Sherlock, Inspector Somersby and his two colleagues from the Herefordshire CID were in the residents’ lounge of the Boscombe Valley Hotel, a small, comfortable room with a roaring fire that hadn’t existed two days ago.

They were celebrating the successful conclusion of the Cloete murder case, succinctly tied up by Sherlock, who had identified the perpetrator and extracted the confession; even at this moment, the entirely innocent Paul Cloete was on his way home from prison.

Somersby and the two other police officers were now off duty, it was time to celebrate. Lilith, aka AJ Crowley, was on duty behind the bar.

“Come on,” Somersby, tapped Sherlock lightly on the arm with his fist, “Let us into your secret, what put you on to him.”

“Go on,” John said encouragingly, “Dazzle us!”

Sherlock looked round uncertainly but John’s eyes were shining in the firelight as he nodded his reassurance. His face was beaming with pride in Sherlock’s success, just like the old days… before. So much so that Sherlock was very nearly overcome with the emotion of it. He felt his face go hot with embarrassment, and he took a large gulp of his drink. Seeing that he had everyone’s attention Sherlock began.

“The police,” Somersby gave a shrug at that and held out his hands as if in submission, Sherlock continued.

“The police considered this an open and shut case, based on very little evidence, true Paul Cloete had been in the vicinity when his father was murdered, but the conviction rested on the evidence of Robbie Crowder that he had heard André Cloete call ‘Howzit’ in a manner usually reserved for his son. But Paul, was not the only South African in the neighbourhood and therefore he could have been addressing his neighbour and old friend, Jack Baker.

“I spoke to Paul Cloete this morning, and he stuck to his story, he had returned from college unexpectedly as there had been an outbreak of glandular fever in his hall of residence and he had thought it best to come home. He had decided to take a walk in the woods and to pot a few rabbits while he was about it. It might give lie to Miss Baker’s claim that he wouldn’t hurt a fly, but it doesn’t make him a murderer.

“Paul told me that his father greeted him warmly but then told him to be on his way as he was due to meet someone. Paul thought it odd and said so. At that point, his father started to argue with him, and as a final blow suggested that instead of hanging round the farm, he should make the most of his unexpected visit home to settle things with Alice. Paul took objection to this and stormed off, intending to head home as he had lost his appetite for the walk, and for taking shots at the bunnies in the woods.

“Paul sounded sincere, but that didn’t mean he was innocent.”

Sherlock took another drink.

“Go on” encouraged one of the officers.

“After my Skype call with Paul Cloete I met Alice Baker and learned that her father had suffered a stroke the night of André Cloete’s death. I also learned from Dr Watson that Alice’s father had been as passionately against his daughter’s marrying Paul Cloete as his father had been for it. That didn’t make sense, Jack Baker had no sons of his own, the men were old friends and compatriots, Paul was a respectable young man training to be a farmer, you would have thought that Baker would have been delighted to join their two families in this way. I knew that I had to speak to Jack Baker to get to the bottom of this affair.

“I arranged with Miss Baker to visit her father in hospital. He was frail, could hardly speak and the stroke had resulted in paralysis down one side but when he learned that his son had been arrested for murder, he disclosed everything.”

“His son!” the other officer exclaimed.

“Yes, Jack Baker had known André Cloete’s wife back in Natal; the Cloetes had been married some years without children and their marriage was going through a difficult patch, Jack was unmarried, the inevitable happened. Helene Cloete asked Jack to go away, he was already in half a mind to leave South Africa anyway so he sold up and moved to England, little expecting that André would do the same after Helene died three years later.

“Jack always felt guilty, that’s why he let Hathaway Farm to Cloete, but it also meant that he could keep an eye on his son. André and Paul Cloete were close, the boy appeared to be happy, and fortunately took after his mother in looks. Jack Baker decided not to rock the boat. His daughter was like her own mother in colouring. I noticed the similarity in the set of the eyes and around the chin but then I observe whereas most people only see.

“The two children grew up as brother and sister, which in fact they were, but no one suspected. Then old Cloete got it into his head that they should marry. Motivated by money, no doubt; Baker had done so well with his big house and landed estate while he was still a tenant farmer. Jack knew he was unwell, and was afraid that if he died, Alice would turn to Paul for comfort and the relationship would become romantic, particularly with his father so keen on the idea, they might find it convenient if nothing else.

“Jack Baker decided he must tell André the truth while there was still time. He arranged to meet him at the mere, away from prying eyes at the farmhouse. He confessed, André went for him, Baker is covered in bruises by the way, although they were put down to when the stroke floored him. Baker defended himself, he was a strong man once, and Cloete split his skull open on a rock at the edge of the mere.

“He panicked and left Cloete and went back to the Hall where the stroke hit him. He knew that Cloete was dead but had no idea that Paul was in Boscombe or that he had been arrested for murder until I told him this afternoon. He immediately confessed everything. The rest you know.”

******

“That was amazing.”

“Really?” Sherlock looked at John in surprise, it had been so long since he had been on the receiving end of praise from the doctor.

“Absolutely brilliant, you got all that from just one word! Amazing!”

Sherlock demurred, turning a delicate shade of pink. “Your contribution was important too, John, Alice’s comments about her father’s view of Paul as a potential suitor made me suspicious and more aware of their genetic link.”

They smiled at each other and John licked his lips. Sherlock blinked.

Over in the corner, Mr Fell, the acting hotel manager who had snuck into the room without anyone noticing winked at Lilith, _this all seemed to be going to plan._

“Well, I think this calls for champagne,” he said, standing up and making his guests jump a little, “on the house.”

“No, I really don’t think so.” Sherlock said firmly, but the others had heard the phrase ‘on the house’ and shouted him down.

“A man has died; another is dying, and a young woman has had her world torn apart. It is hardly a cause for celebration.”

John stared at Sherlock and raised an inquisitive eyebrow; it wasn’t like the detective to be sensitive to the moment. The police officers quietened down, lamenting the loss of a free drink.

Aziraphale looked flummoxed, the second stage of his plan required alcohol. Lilith came to the rescue.

“I know just the thing,” she said with a flourish, “Guinness and Champagne, the official drink of mourning.”

******

Somersby and his two colleagues carried the unconscious Sherlock up the two flights of stairs to his room and dumped him unceremoniously on the bed. John thanked them and let them go. He slipped off Sherlock’s shoes and loosened his belt before rolling him onto his side in the prone position and covering him with the duvet. Sherlock immediately began to snore.

John, comparatively sober but still rather worse for wear reviewed the situation, then took himself off to the bathroom to change into his pyjamas and to brush his teeth, he used the toilet and drank a glass of water before refilling it bringing back into the room to put on the table on Sherlock’s side. John took a long look at the bed before deciding, it was a big bed and the room was bloody freezing, he scooted under the covers and switched off the light.

******

Downstairs a dejected angel was being inadequately comforted by a penitent demon.

“It was all going so well,” Aziraphale bemoaned, “they were laughing and smiling at each other, I could have sworn I heard Dr Watson giggle, then the next thing Sherlock was under the table.”

“It’s my fault,” Crowley said gloomily, “I should never have let him have that fifth Black Velvet.”


	10. Handle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to London

Crowley, at the wheel of the Bentley, pulled slowly out of the carpark of the Boscombe Valley Hotel, a sadly disappointed angel slumped in the passenger seat beside him. He turned the car in the direction of motorway and London, the thick carpet of snow melting before them. Two miles out of the village there was no snow at all.

Crowley leant over to the glove box and fished out a cassette, _Ah, Vivaldi, that might lighten Aziraphale’s mood._

He popped the cassette into the slot. There was a short bust of strings and then Queen’s ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ took over.

Aziraphale sighed, “Not now, please Crowley.”

Crowley killed the music.

******

“It strikes me,” Crowley paused, he might be a demon, but he never liked to hurt anyone’s feelings (and by anyone he meant Aziraphale).

“Yes?”

“It strikes me that we went about that the wrong way.” Crowley waited for the rebuttal, it never came so he ploughed on, letting the car keep an eye on the road for a while. “Perhaps we should have prepared the ground a bit more, you know, they have been apart for a long time. It might have been a bit much to just present them a double bed and expect them to get on with… er… it.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Aziraphale sounded a little snippy, for an angel.

Crowley had the sneaky feeling that Aziraphale would not entirely approve of the plan that was slowly forming in his mind, so he quickly changed the subject by suggesting they stop for lunch.

 _It might be tricky,_ Crowley reflected on his idea _, but he had always worked better alone and it didn't involve anything he couldn’t handle._


	11. Swimming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley plots and Sherlock takes a dip

Crowley dropped Aziraphale at his shop but didn’t go in; he had a plan formulating in his head and he wanted to get to it, plus he was still rather wary of the pollen.

Back at his own flat he surveyed his house plants. “Don’t even think about it,” he said menacingly. Their leaves trembled.

He sat down at his computer and googled Sherlock Holmes, he read the detective’s blog, he read Dr Watson’s blog, for good measure he googled Mary Morstan. She did not have a blog, which was disappointing. In fact, she didn’t have much at all, which was curious.

Crowley concluded that the detective was at his most attractive to Dr Watson when he was detecting, so the demon closed his computer and went out to find him a crime.

******

Sherlock was in that state of overwhelming tedium where the alternatives were to shoot up or shoot the wall. As John’s gun no longer lived at Baker Street, and the idea of sending for Bill Wiggins was becoming increasingly attractive, the arrival of Lestrade with a mystery was a God send, even though the case was barely a three.

“Fell in,” Sherlock concluded after Lestrade related the details of the man picked out of the river by the Thames Barrier the night before, “where’s the mystery in that? Stop wasting my time.”

Lestrade protested, “if you would let me finish…”

The inspector continued with his description of the corpse: dead approximately thirty-six hours, no water in the lungs, therefore he entered the water posthumously, every bone in his body broken, and not just broken, some were completely crushed.

Sherlock upgraded the case to a five, not riveting but it would do; he condescended to put on his coat and accompany Lestrade to Bart’s where the body had been taken for the post-mortem.

******

After the detective had examined the body and compared his findings with Molly, (male, aged 30-40, 198 cm tall, 140 kilos, South American, possibly Brazilian, sailor, judging by his clothes and tattoos, and the specks of paint under his nails), Sherlock and Lestrade attended the scene where the body had been drawn out of the water. Here Sherlock considered the approximate time of death, the tidal patterns for the two nights before, the wind speed and other prevailing conditions and declared that the corpse had come from a container ship presently docked at Tilbury.

Lestrade contacted the Port of London police and arranged to meet them at the main container depot and he and Sherlock made their way to the docks. Sherlock having upgraded the case to an eight was in full flow, deduction spilling over deduction in the haste to leave his mouth. He concluded that the murderer was still on board the Star of Brazil, a container vessel sailing under the Liberian Flag and almost certainly being used for smuggling as well as legitimate cargo. Bored at the pace Lestrade and the Port of London officers’ investigations were proceeding, Sherlock decided to do a bit of snooping on his own.

******

“I was never in any danger.” Sherlock grumbled to John, who had arrived to take him home from the Hospital in Thurrock, where Sherlock had been kept overnight ‘for observation’. Unfortunately, this declaration was ruined by a violent sneeze and a fit of coughing.

Despite his protestations, this claim was not completely true. Sherlock had been fine as he climbed on board the Star of Brazil, he had been fine when he descended into the small hold on the starboard side of the ship, he had even been fine when Harry Harkins, Ship’s Captain and perpetrator had locked him in. What had altered the situation from fine to not so fine, was the presence of a fifteen-foot boa constrictor in the hold with him.

Whether Harry Harkins had instigated the crime against his fellow smuggler, or the actions of the boa constrictor had been a happy co-incidence, Sherlock was yet to discover. He had been forced to shed his coat like a snake sheds its skin and escape through a port hole into the water.

He was gratified to see that at some point his coat had been rescued from captivity, possibly by the same officers who arrested Harry Harkins, and was now hanging on a hook by his hospital bed.

John was not convinced, “So what exactly were you doing in the Thames?”

Sherlock sniffed miserably, “Swimming!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another trope I seem to notice in fanfiction is if a story involves the Thames either Sherlock or John will end up in it.


	12. Salt

_Trust Sherlock to wait until he’d been discharged from hospital to get really sick_ , John thought, as he tucked the quilt a little closer round his sleeping friend. Sherlock shivered and gave a little moan but then settled again.

John placed a hand on Sherlock’s forehead to gauge his temperature, _hot but not dangerously so,_ and then _s_ wept the tangled mess of his curls back from his face. Sherlock’s skin was pale, with two high spots of colour on his cheeks denoting the fever. He looked no more than twelve years old. Fortunately, the hospital had sent him home with a course of antibiotics and in the company of his own doctor.

Although he had been back from his exile for almost five months, Sherlock was still underweight, even for someone who was as naturally slender, and the wounds on his back, that he thought John knew nothing about, although healed had hardly begun to fade. John couldn’t help a pang of guilt when he considered those scars, and the incident in the Landmark when he had knocked Sherlock to the floor. The fall had broken the stitches, John was aware of that now, but it had become just another thing that he and Sherlock didn’t talk about.

******

“I’ve brought your washbag and a change of clothes.” Mary said, dropping the holdall and sitting down on the side of the bed unoccupied by Sherlock, “I’ll watch him for a bit, if you want to take a shower.”

John looked at his fiancée in surprise, as if he had forgotten she was a nurse.

“In a minute,” John replied, reluctant for some unfathomable reason to leave Sherlock even in her care.

Mary didn’t push it, it was one of the things he liked most about her, she knew when not to question his actions.

“Well, I’ve brought plenty to keep you occupied. The venue has sent through the menu cards, they want us to whittle it down to a choice of three before we go to the tasting next month, and I’ve brought the brochures too.” Mary gestured towards the holdall, “I’ve marked the ones I think look best, there’s a couple of all-inclusive in Alicante, but I’d be happy with Cephalonia or Rhodes if you’re not keen on Spain.

“Anyway, if you are stopping here tonight, I’ll be off.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Course not, can’t wait to be rid of you. I’m going round to Janine’s to talk all things lilac over a bottle or wine… or two!”

Mary stood up and grabbed her handbag before lifting her face to John’s and puckering her lips. He moved closer intending to give her a quick peck, but she parted her lips and the kiss turned deeper than he intended. Mary cupped his arse and then gave his left cheek a light slap and a pinch. They broke apart laughing, and then she was gone.

******

“Woo-Hoo!”

Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway of Sherlock’s bedroom.

“I thought you might appreciate some lunch,” She whispered conspiratorially, “There’s a few sandwiches and a pot of tea in the kitchen. I don’t mind watching him if you want a break.”

John considered this for a moment, he was always ready for a cup of tea.

“Thanks, Mrs H,” he said, vacating the chair next to Sherlock’s bed, so that Mrs Hudson could sit down.

John took advantage of the breathing space to take the shower he hadn’t felt comfortable taking while Mary was there. He ate the lunch Mrs Hudson had prepared for him, and then fetched a glass of water for Sherlock.

Back in the bedroom, John checked Sherlock’s temperature and pulse and said. “Going in the right direction. I could do with him having his next dose of antibiotics, but it seems a shame to wake him.”

“You are good to him, John,” Mrs Hudson said, “he is lucky to have you, but then I suppose we are lucky to have him…”

In the bed, Sherlock stirred, and his eyes fluttered beneath their lids, and then opened.

“Heard us talking about you? How are you feeling?”

Privately, Sherlock felt like he had been run over by a ten-ton truck but that didn’t stop him trying to sit up.

“Whoa!” John swiftly moved round the other side of the bed and went to help his friend, supporting him with one arm while Mrs Hudson fussed with the pillows behind him.

“That’s better!” She announced with some satisfaction, “Now, I have some chicken soup downstairs if you feel up to it, and your doctor agrees.”

“That sounds great, Mrs Hudson. What do you think, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was about to protest when his tummy gave a loud rumble.

“That’s a ‘yes’ from the sickbed, Mrs H.” John said, “Give me a shout when it is ready and I’ll pop down for it, I don’t want you carrying hot liquids up the stairs.”

“Thank you, John, it’s not easy with my hip, and I’m not getting any younger.”

“None of us are getting any younger!” John replied as Mrs Hudson slipped out of the room.

John handed the glass of water to Sherlock who managed a few sips.

“She’s right you know, none of us are getting any younger, and that includes you. You should consider yourself lucky, a hundred and fifty years ago this would have been typhoid, or cholera, and no antibiotics to treat it. You can’t keep chasing down criminals on your own, running headfirst into danger, one day your luck is going to run out."

Sherlock groaned but John wasn’t fooled.

“Promise me you’ll stop taking unnecessary risks.”

Sounding every bit like the moody teenager he looked, Sherlock said, “I promise you I’ll take more care in future.”

John gave Sherlock a grim smile, _he’d take that promise with a pinch of salt_.


	13. Boss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 221b from Mary's POV

Mary Morstan knew how to keep her cool under even the most stressful of situations, a trait that had served her well throughout her professional life. When she considered the intricacies of some of the operations she had organised, a wedding was hardly going to turn her into Bridezilla.

She reviewed her list:

Church – tick, Venue – tick, Bridesmaids – tick, Cake tasting – _check date with J,_ Best Man – tick, Ring Bearer – _Archie? Confirm Sophie ok,_ Flowers – _no idea, google florist,_ Photographer – _same._

Reception, Food – _order after taster session_ , Music _– book DJ through venue,_ First Dance – _check how this progressing?_

Mary paused and then crossed this through, John had told her it was in hand, and she should trust him with something.

Honeymoon – _that ought to be down to John too, but she needed to steer him away from some regions that she had no wish to revisit. The Med would be fine, it was a summer wedding… Perhaps she had better go ahead and book something herself, John wouldn’t mind._

Mary wondered if she should be worried that John didn’t seem to have any strong opinions of his own regarding their wedding but decided she’d let it lie. It certainly made things a lot simpler that John was quite happy to acquiesce to all her suggestions with a cheery, “You’re the boss!”


	14. Ugly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More ineffable plotting

It is no laughing matter to be chastised by an angel, Crowley reminded himself as he tried to keep a straight face under the onslaught of Aziraphale’s wrath. The problem was that although he had started out as the Angel of the Eastern gate, complete with flaming sword, Aziraphale’s manifestation of anger amounted to no more than a pout, and a great deal of sighing interspersed with a few tuts.

“What were you thinking of Crowley?” the angel asked for the fourth time.

Crowley tried to justify himself again but Aziraphale shut him down smartly. “You nearly got the poor boy killed, not once, not twice but four times.”

“Of course, I didn’t.”

Aziraphale began to count on his fingers. “Firstly, the drug smuggling killer on the ‘Star of Brazil’… secondly, the boa constrictor in the hold…

Crowley objected, “Sid’s an old friend, he wouldn’t have hurt him!”

Aziraphale ignored his fiend and carried on, “thirdly, an impromptu dip in the icy Thames, he was lucky not to drown or get hyperthermia… and fourthly, what he did get, which was pneumonia.”

“Worked though didn’t it? Who was there at his sickbed, checking his vitals and mopping his brow? None other than the love of his life, Dr Watson.”

Aziraphale’s lips pursed into a tight line before he spoke again. “Who was treated to a timely reminder as to just what an awful patient Sherlock is once he is on the mend, and who made his excuses and went scuttling back to his fiancée as soon as he could.”

Crowley could see the angel’s point and apologised.

Aziraphale accepted the apology and said graciously, “Well in the end there was no harm done, and I suppose you meant well.”

“I think that was the problem,” Crowley replied, “I’m a demon, I am not supposed to mean well.”

As neither of them could think of anything to say to that, they sat in silence for a while until Aziraphale sighed loudly and said.

“Perhaps I should give up. Let human nature run its course, not try to alter the future.”

“If we let human nature run its course they’d all still be living in caves and dying of smallpox! And as for not altering the future… that ship’s already sailed.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Aziraphale said petulantly.

“Let me think…” Crowley stood and began to walk up and down; they were meeting in St James’s Park this morning as Aziraphale’s shop was still infested with flowers.

A few minutes later, Crowley returned to their bench and sat down again.

“I still think we are going about this the wrong way.” He said, “We have just reinforced Dr Watson’s old patterns of behaviour where your friend is concerned – colleague and nursemaid. We need to make him see Sherlock in a different way… as a potential partner.”

“What would you suggest?” Aziraphale snapped, “Nothing that endangers life, this time, please.”

“Jealousy.” Crowley replied instantly. “The Green-eyed monster. Never fails… get Sherlock a boyfriend, make Dr Watson realise what he’s missing.”

Aziraphale looked thoughtful for a moment and then smiled, “you know, I really think it might work, that is just what Dr Watson needs, a rival… but where…” Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley.

“It is just the job for you. You are tall, slim, stylish, marvellous cheekbones…” Aziraphale felt his face grow hot and stopped talking abruptly.

Crowley took the compliments in his stride. “That’s the problem, Sherlock and I, we’re too alike, we know the type he goes for, opposites attract, you’ll have to do it.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t.” Aziraphale protested, “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“All you have to do is flirt, you know, make puppy-eyes, lick your lips and tell him he’s amazing. You’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time.”

“No Crowley, you ask too much, it was your idea, and you are the one to do it.”

“I tell you what, toss you for it.” Crowley produced a coin. “Ok, heads I win, tails you lose”

Aziraphale called tails, he lost.

Crowley felt a little guilty at the deception and agreed to help Aziraphale plan his campaign, it was the least he could do.

“I’ll need you on hand,” Aziraphale insisted, when Crowley suggested he would make himself scarce, “I’m not sure how Dr Watson might react to a rival… things might turn ugly.”


	15. Argument

Aziraphale was an angel at home in his own skin, or rather the corporal entity that he had chosen to adopt six thousand years ago when he was sent to begin his duties on earth. He considered that it suited him very well, and while he had made one or two minor adaptations over the centuries, he had never seen any need to change the basic outline.

It was true that he was a little eccentric in his mode of dress, but he had found a style in the mid-eighteen hundreds that he thought rather suited him and had stuck with it. He was a little on the plump side, that he would admit, but he had long ago discovered that you always received better service in restaurants if you gave the chef the impression you will actually enjoy the food they serve you.

The same could not be said for the demon Crowley, who changed his appearance at will to suit the occasion and was equally at home in the male or female human form, but then his raw material was generally believed to be less desirable than Aziraphale’s, humans being disappointingly unappreciative of snakes. When with his angel Crowley usually adopted the likeness of a lithe twenty five year old man, albeit one with distinctly ophidian characteristics.

It was therefore Crowley the angel turned to for advice on changing his physical form into something likely to attract the interest of the discerning consulting detective.

Crowley gave it his full attention, he studied Aziraphale at great length and in great detail. He accessed his memories of Dr Watson from the Boscombe Valley Hotel in conjunction with a variety of photographs from the popular press; (he learned a significant amount of Sherlock Holmes’ backstory from these sources as well), and came up with a look which, in Crowley’s opinion, was guaranteed to appeal.

Aziraphale was still rather bewildered as to the precise circumstances in which he had ended up with this gig but having once set his hand to the plough was not about to look back. He agreed after some debate, to lop a few inches off his height, his hair, and his waistline, but he drew the line at changing his accent.

Crowley tried to persuade him otherwise but Aziraphale was adamant, in the end it was Crowley that caved.

With his neatly clipped hair and vowels, Aziraphale gave the impression of being vaguely ex-military, British, intelligent and that he was gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide. Crowley thought that when it came to flirting with Sherlock Holmes all four would provide essential weapons in the campaign.

Aziraphale demurred at Crowley’s advice on clothing and refused all his suggestions.

Crowley was adamant.

Aziraphale was immutable.

Crowley said, “I thought you wanted to win this game?”

Aziraphale counted “I thought you were going to be helpful.”

The standoff continued, jeans were out, the Aran jumper too obvious, finally they compromised on a pair of tailored corduroys, a plaid shirt and a leather jacket.

“Go on then,” Crowley said as Aziraphale appeared in his new garb, “give us a twirl?”

The Angel dutifully spun on his heels, “What do you think? Do I pass?”

Crowley was quiet for some time and then said nonchalantly, “well, I would,” which in his opinion settled the argument.


	16. Trinket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Baker Street, a meeting

“Count… one two three, one two three… keep counting, one two three, until you don’t know you’re doing it. Left hand up, higher, that’s right, keep it there. You’re leading remember, one two three… Step – point, Step – point and solo three turn.”

In the sitting room of 221b Baker Street, chairs pushed out of the way, rug rolled up and the sound of Danny Williams singing _Moon River_ coming from Mrs Hudson’s iPod, Sherlock was teaching John to waltz.

John was not an intuitive dancer; true he was reasonably agile and had a certain amount of natural grace, but he was much more at home on the rugby field than the dance floor. However, he was blessed with no more than the usual number of left feet and could follow simple instructions, so Sherlock was not about to give up just yet.

“Right, let’s try that again, from the top.” _Moon River_ was on repeat.

John did as he was told, but the truth was that he neither felt nor looked at ease. How much of this was simply because he and Sherlock were not a well-matched pair and how much due to the range of complex emotions caused by the proximity to his friend (which was both too close for comfort and not close enough for waltzing), was hard to tell. But it was made significantly worse by the fact that John, the shorter of the two and the beginner, was leading while Sherlock, who was much more experienced, was totally unused to being led.

“Reverse turn, and again, and again, and…”

“Woo-hoo!” Mrs Hudson was at the door, all agog at the sight of Sherlock in John’s arms. The two men jumped apart as if caught in the act of something far less innocent than dancing.

“I did call, you can’t have heard the bell… you’ve a client.”

John didn’t know if he was annoyed or relieved at the disruption, but Sherlock had no such qualms. “Show them in please, Mrs Hudson,” he said, kicking the rug back into place and replacing the client’s chair.

******

Aziraphale and Crowley had applied themselves to concocting a case that would be plausible, and of sufficient interest for the great Sherlock Holmes to be prepared to take it on. Aziraphale had ruled out murder, kidnapping or arson, Crowley had dismissed any financial crime as too tedious for words, and Aziraphale agreed that Sherlock would probably view it in the same way. It would have to be theft. Aziraphale remembered an interesting crime from Paris in the 1800s that he thought he could adapt; Crowley had already decided he would pose as the client’s stalker/relative to keep an eye on the proceedings but for the time being he kept that to himself. The next step was for Aziraphale to engage the services of a consulting detective.

******

There was something about the client that made Sherlock think they had met before, or perhaps it was merely that the man reminded him of John. Sherlock put the man’s age as late thirties, possibly slightly older, expensively but not ostentatiously dressed, someone who liked the finer things in life and was able to afford them.

Sherlock offered him a seat, and John, who was curious about the client, while wondering if there would be time for the dancing lessons to continue that morning, sat in the chair he still regarded as his own.

The client introduced himself as Ralph Fell, pronouncing his given name as _Rafe_ and Sherlock immediately began his assessment… _Privately educated, Oxbridge, intelligent, fastidious, possibly ex-military, something in the arts, gay._ Perhaps not so like John after all.

Mr Fell began to outline his tale of a missing emerald brooch borrowed from its owner for an exhibition which had been mysteriously disappeared, and how he faced ruin if it was not returned. He had a suspect, a kleptomaniac great aunt who was notoriously light fingered but was unable to prove anything or to recover the jewel.

Sherlock had placed his hands together during Mr Fell’s tale, in the prayer position, and while he appeared to be listening carefully this was a sure sign to John that the detective considered the case a three at best.

However, to John’s surprise, instead of a curt dismissal at the end of Mr Fell’s narrative, Sherlock stood up and began deducing instead.

“I think the real mystery here is you Mr Fell, you have obviously taken a great deal of trouble in cultivating the persona of a well-educated, middle class, middle aged, professional man of the type that is found all over England, but it is apparent to me that you are not what you seem.”

The client laughed uneasily, “My dear boy, whatever gives you that impression?”

Sherlock didn’t need to be asked twice. “It is obvious from your nasal hair, your manicure and the way you were shaved this morning that you have lived a significant part of your life overseas, in fact I would go as far as to say you were born abroad, and that English is not your mother tongue, you have the overly precise diction of a non-native speaker. Every item of clothing you are wearing is brand new, including your shoes and is deliberately casual compared with your usual attire, you are constantly surprised to see your watch on your wrist instead of in your waistcoat pocket. You have military experience but not in the battlefield, I would suggest one of the secret services, either Her Majesty’s or another, friendly, power, my brother would know. I think that is enough to be going on with. So, Mr Fell, perhaps you would care to enlighten me, why did you choose to come here this morning in disguise?”

Aziraphale burst out laughing, “That was amazing!”

“Really?” Sherlock was nonplussed.

“Extraordinary, quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say”

The angel sobered up, curious, “What do they normally say?”

“No matter…” Sherlock said quickly, “Very good, Mr Fell, you intrigue me. I will help you recover your trinket.”


	17. Delusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An encounter

John let himself out of 221 Baker Street and walked briskly to the tube station. He had left Sherlock prone and unresponsive on the couch, their dancing lesson it seemed had been terminated by the arrival of the client, not merely interrupted.

 _One two three, one two three,_ he was still counting beats in his head as he crossed the road, John was feeling more than a little fed up, he had just been getting the hang of concentrating on his hands and his feet, separately and at the same time, with another hour he might have managed the reverse turn without stumbling. The lingo though… _One two three, one two three,_ _hover, whisk, wing, it was worse than learning anatomy._

John had not been impressed by the client, bit too la-de-da for his liking and the kind of plummy vowels that always reminded him of Mycroft. _Rafe!_ What was wrong with a good old fashioned English name like Ralph? Then there was the case, that was the sort of trivial problem that Sherlock wouldn’t sully his mind palace with, even in acute boredom. Missing jewels indeed? Next people would be expecting the detective to look for lost cats. John had fully expected Sherlock to send Mr Fell away with a couple of scathing deductions and a flea in his ear.

Instead, Sherlock had done his whole mesmerising routine and then arranged to go with _Rafe_ to the aunt’s house at eight-thirty that evening. There had been no mention of John going with them, not that he was free later, but that was not the point.

******

At Baker Street station John tapped his oyster card and made his way to the Bakerloo line and his train. He had moved in with Mary, into her flat in Kensal Green only a couple of months before Sherlock’s return, it was a vast improvement on the soulless bedsit he had lived in after leaving Baker Street, but they were intending to look for something more permanent once the wedding was out of the way.

The tube train was rammed, delays on the Jubilee line apparently, and problems at Edgware Road. John parked himself in a corner, with a pole to hang on to and settled in for the twenty-five-minute journey home.

_One two three, one two three, he might call in at Marks and Spencer’s and get something nice for their lunch, now that he would be home in time._

Somewhere between Edgware Road and Paddington the train ground to a halt, some of the passengers groaned while those who were more used to the tube just carried on listening to whatever was on their iPod, or reading the paper, or just staring aimlessly into space.

John looked up, in order to read the information display, then suddenly had the impression he was being watched. He tried to turn his head without making it too conspicuous, and there, partially hidden behind a copy of the Evening Standard, and a pair of rather idiosyncratic sunglasses was Sherlock.

Except it wasn’t Sherlock. True, he was dressed in a bespoke suit and along black coat that covered his tall, sparce frame and what John could see of his face revealed its fine bone structure, but while the hands holding the newspaper were blessed with long, elegant fingers they weren’t quite Sherlock’s. Initially the man’s hair appeared as dark as Sherlock’s although longer and straighter, John could see the way the fluorescent light in the carriage brought out the red in it. He held himself all wrong too, while Sherlock had an animal grace, this man was more sinuous than feline.

Above the newspaper, the man smiled and seemed to catch John’s eye despite the sunglasses. John turned away quickly, blushing, embarrassed at being caught staring, but then he couldn’t help checking again, which left John certain that the man was deliberately staring at him. _Did he know him? One of Mycroft’s goons? Some criminal that Sherlock had put away in the past?_

John looked down at his feet, the memory of the man’s hidden gaze making his cheeks burn, _think about something else, one two three, one two three, reverse turn…_

_"Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker  
Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way…"_

The words of _Moon River_ came unbidden into John’s head, and he made a decision. He moved slightly so he was stood facing the man, _really, he was quite a dish, this anonymous guy on the tube, and what harm was there in looking?_

The train lurched, the lights flickered, and they were on their way. The handsome stranger got off at Paddington, with a mixture of relief and disappointment John watched him go, before finding an empty seat and settling down for the ride.

******

Crowley stepped off the train and made his way out of the station, by passing both the stairs and the escalators. _Not gay_ , he laughed to himself as he walked out onto the street, w _hat a capacity that man had for delusion!_


	18. Property

The moment Sherlock heard the front door close behind John, he got up from the couch and fired up his laptop; he then spent a frustrating couple of hours researching the remarkably elusive Mr Ralph Fell. It wasn’t that there was no information, rather the reverse, there was heaps of it, covering more decades, events and places than were feasibly possible for one individual to have gathered by his age. What was more, there was something about every entry Sherlock read that jarred and left him with the impression that it might have been ‘cut and pasted’ from someone else’s Wikipedia page. Curiouser and curiouser.

Sherlock closed his laptop, in his bedroom he changed into one of his more disreputable disguises and slipped out of Baker Street through Mrs Hudson’s kitchen door, through the yard and into the lane that ran along the rear of the houses. He quickly made his way onto the Marylebone Road where he flagged down a taxi to take him to a far from salubrious area of Stepney and the home of a former irregular of Sherlock’s who was still known by the nom de plume of Freddie the Fence.

Freddie greeted Sherlock warmly, this being the first time that their paths had crossed since The Fall. They spent a pleasant afternoon together reminiscing over old times while Sherlock outlined the details of his present investigation and Freddie gave his opinion on the most likely way the theft had been carried out. 

Armed with the mobile numbers of a couple of Freddie’s contacts who were more specialist in the area of jewel theft and having borrowed a few of the tools of Freddie’s previous trade, (breaking and entering), Sherlock went back to Baker Street to await the arrival of his client.

******

Mr Fell arrived promptly at half past eight, and had a cab waiting. Sherlock slid into the back seat next to his client and the car took off, like a rocket. The taxi was certainly nothing like any cab he had ever been driven in, a low-slung vintage model.

 _Must be an Uber,_ Sherlock thought, _though the way the man was driving at ninety miles an hour, it seemed through the streets of London, he had certainly done ‘the knowledge’_.

Sherlock would have claimed that he knew London like the back of his hand. Since his return from his exile, he had made it his business to reacquaint himself with the city, and the changes that had happened while he was away. Even so, Sherlock became aware that he was unfamiliar with this part of town; he wondered if Mr Fell’s mystery might have more sinister overtones, and if he should have brought John after all.

But Mr Fell, _do call me Ralph_ , was making genial conversation, outlining their plan for this evening. Ralph would play a social call on his great-aunt. He would keep her occupied, while Sherlock forced his way in through the part of the house that would have been the tradesman’s entrance in former times. The cab would be asked to wait, parked in the alleyway at the side of the house, ready to make a quick getaway.

“Doesn’t give me much time,” Sherlock said, thinking again that the mystery of Ralph Fell, was much more interesting than the case.

The client had an answer, “Aunty keeps everything of value in a locked box, inlaid Javanese lacquer, in her dressing table, if the emerald is in the house, it will be there.”

******

As it turned out Sherlock had plenty of time, as soon as he saw his client disappear into the house, Sherlock slipped round the back under cover of darkness, hopped over the fence and forced the basement kitchen window. He stealthily climbed the back stairs and made his way along the landing to the master bedroom. The drawer of the dressing table was unlocked, it was an old piece which had no doubt lost its key years ago. Sherlock reached in and took out the jewellery box.

With an air of satisfaction, Sherlock sprung the lock without damaging it, and there, in pride of place on a small velvet cushion was the emerald brooch. Sherlock pocketed it and replaced the box in the dressing table.

He stole out of the bedroom and back the way he had come, on the floor below he could clearly hear Mr Fell and an elderly woman talking loudly and firmly, but without shouting. He deduced that both aunt and nephew thought the other was going deaf.

In the alleyway the car was waiting, empty but unlocked. As Sherlock stood by it wondering whether to get in or to make his own way home, the cabbie sauntered up to him, chewing gum and smelling faintly of smoke. _Ah! That explained his absence._

Sherlock didn’t begrudge this dereliction of duty; in the circumstances he would probably have done the same, but he did find it rather disconcerting to observe the driver seemed to be wearing sunglasses. He was just about to file this fact under the general mistrust of cabbies he had harboured for years, when Ralph appeared around the corner of the mews, flapping ever so slight and in their desperate haste to get away, the strange eyewear of the driver was forgotten.

******

On the back seat of the car, Sherlock held out his hand to reveal the emerald brooch. Ralph went into raptures, both over the jewel and Sherlock’s ingenuity in securing its return.

Sherlock still considered the case as no more than a one and a half at best, however that did not prevent him from basking in warmth of Ralph’s praise.

As they headed back into central London, Sherlock began to sift through the events of the day, ever since Mr Fell had appeared at 221b that morning. _The case was a charade, there was no ‘great-aunt’, or if there was, she certainly wasn’t the main occupant of the house he had just burgled, even the cab wasn’t a Honda or a Nissan but a 1933 Bentley… He would worry that it was all some elaborate hoax to use him to perpetrate a crime if it wasn’t for the fact the emerald was so obviously a fake. Curiouser and curiouser._

But far from being angry, Sherlock couldn’t help still being intrigued. There was a mystery to solve… the conundrum that was Ralph Fell.

“Dinner?” Sherlock said suddenly.

Aziraphale beamed, he could always be persuaded in the direction of food.

“Starving!”

“At the end of Baker Street there’s a good Chinese stays open until two…”

The Bentley braked suddenly causing both Sherlock and Aziraphale to lurch forward; when he had recovered, Sherlock continued.

“We can celebrate the recovery of your stolen property.”


	19. Greece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding Planning

“We should have eloped.” John complained, while checking his emails on his phone.

“You can next time.” Mary replied, as she brushed passed him to pin another post-it to the wall. John gave her a squinty look; he was never entirely sure when she was joking.

John surveyed the wall, somehow having neither seen nor heard a sign of Sherlock for over three weeks, he had arrived at Baker Street after work to find that Mary was already there and that the sitting room of 221b had been turned into Wedding HQ. Sherlock had, it appeared stepped up to the plate regarding his best man brief and applied his creative but highly effective organisational skills to the subject of John and Mary’s wedding; every detail, from the canapés to the confetti was now under Sherlock’s meticulous management. 

He was now surreptitiously watching an instructional video on the art of napkin folding on his laptop while Mary went through the RSVPs.

“Mr and Dr Nicoll?”

“Angus and Lynne, she trained with John at Barts, there’s a table, second on the left for medics.”

“Dan and Laura Williams? They’re mine.”

“Opposite side, with the Carters, Sophie and Steve, and little Archie.” 

“John’s cousin, top table?”

Mary waved an envelope at Sherlock, and he took it. “Hates you,” he said at once, “can’t even bear to think about you, second class post, cheap card...”

Sherlock paused, sniffed the card and pulled a face, “... bought at a petrol station. Look at the stamp, three attempts at licking. She’s obviously unconsciously retaining saliva.”

Sherlock might have been about to say more but at that moment his mobile rang, he glanced at the display, smiled shyly and then said, “excuse me, I need to take this,” picking up the call. He disappeared into his bedroom and closed the door, but not before John heard the pleasant rumble of his laugh.

“Hates me, does she?” Mary turned to address John, “Let’s stick her by the bogs.”

Mary continued working through the table plan, trying to cross reference the seating with the cards in her hand. When it seemed that Sherlock wasn’t about to return any time soon, she commandeered John to help her.

“G Lestrade?”

“That’s Greg, he’ll hardly know anyone, put him with Molly and Mrs H.”

John walked over to the table and picked up the next card, it was of ivory heavyweight card, embossed in silver, and written in a flamboyant italic script in violet ink. John could only just make out the name, but he recognised it immediately.

“Ralph Fell? Ralph Fell! He’s one of Sherlock’s clients, how the heck has he got himself invited to our wedding?”

“Sherlock asked, I could hardly refuse the best man, could I? After all, Mrs Hudson is bringing Mr Chatterjee, and Molly, her chap. He’s Sherlock’s plus one.”

John threw the card down on the table, for a moment everything was just white noise, _plus one, plus one. How could Sherlock possibly have a plus one?_

He must have said that last bit out loud, because he suddenly became aware that Mary was talking.

“… went for a meal afterwards… had tickets for the Albert Hall, and things seem to have progressed from there.”

“Sherlock doesn’t do relationships.” John said defiantly.

“Maybe he didn’t before,” Mary replied, “But it would appear he does now. Who do you think he’s talking to on the phone in there?”

John protested. “But they hardly know each other.”

Mary interpreted this as relating to the invitation, “perhaps it’s a bit soon, but I thought it would be nice for Sherlock to have a friend of his own at the reception, especially as Mike’s working abroad.”

John didn’t speak, he couldn’t, he looked at Mary and wondered how she could stand there so calmly and not understand the significance of those words. _Sherlock’s plus one._

The bedroom door opened, and Sherlock emerged, John stared at him, trying to determine if his friend was looking or acting differently. Sherlock seemed flushed, his neck peeking out from his open shirt looked blotchy, and his eyes, were they really sparkling? John tried to work out how long Sherlock had been gone. _Oh God, what if he’d just had phone sex?_

Apparently impervious to John’s discomfort, Sherlock and Mary spent a little while longer over the table plan before moving on to the food and wine for the reception, from there they discussed cake, the DJ, the first dance and the evening do. John, who had gone back to his phone, ostensibly to check how their wedding budget was going, tuned out their conversation as he tried to get to grips with the fact that Sherlock had a plus one… that is… a boyfriend… that is… was gay.

When he tuned back in Sherlock and Mary were still talking weddings.

“You need to make a decision soon Mary,” Sherlock was saying, “you are behind schedule on that one.”

“The honeymoon’s John’s department really, I’m happy to go anywhere as long as it’s warm, got a bar and not Butlins.”

Sherlock had started to say something about the average hours of sunshine in Alicante versus Cephalonia, John heard the name Rafe and Mary’s interested sounding responses. John sunk further into a funk. He really did wish they had eloped, he was sick of purple bridesmaids, cake tasting and _what the heck did it matter if they honeymooned in Spain instead of Greece?_


	20. Heels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley plans a campaign of his own.

Crowley was not a happy demon.

He and Aziraphale may have only seen each other once every century or so, until recently that is, but for the last six millennia it had been an inexplicable source of comfort that there was one entity on earth who knew exactly where Crowley was coming from. They might have been led by circumstances to be loners but in their friendship, they were not alone. Now Crowley was being forced to share.

Even the bookshop was off limits as it was still full of blasted flowers that refused to die although Crowley did his utmost to intimidate them.

When Crowley had suggested that Aziraphale play the part of an interested client (suitor) to Sherlock Holmes, it had been on a whim; he had fully expected that the scheme would fall apart in a day or two at most. All Aziraphale needed to do was pay the detective a little bit of attention and bring Dr Watson’s possessive streak into play. Then the angel could gently bow out and leave the two humans to get on with it.

 _Trust Aziraphale to overdo it_ , Crowley thought. Instead of holding Sherlock’s interest for no more than an afternoon at most, the angel, in the guise of Ralph Fell, and the so-called sociopath, now appeared to be courting. Aziraphale was never around when Crowley wanted him, it was all lectures at the Natural History Museum, or Paganini Violin Concertos at the Wigmore Hall, or afternoon tea at the Dorchester… and no time for his oldest friend.

There was only one thing for it, the sooner Sherlock Holmes was safe in the arms of John Watson the better.

******

Back at his flat, Crowley started work on a scheme of his own. For six thousand years Crowley had been a firm believer in getting humans to do the donkey work for him, he fired the starting gun, and humanity did the rest. As a result, Crowley’s conditioned laziness made him look for a way to scupper Dr Watson’s wedding plans without having to put in too much donkey work himself, the answer was glaringly obvious and required the co-operation, voluntary or not, of the third point on the love triangle. Mary Morstan, the bride to be. 

She had sparked his interest before, Ms Mary Morstan; he’d sent a freedom of information request to his superiors after Aziraphale had first mentioned her. He was still waiting for her file, but he had done his research, and he had decided the best way to approach her.

Six-thirty on a Thursday night, time to Zumba!

******

Janine was delighted to find a new girl from the old country in her Zumba class, and from County Louth too, just down the road from where she grew up. Antonia confessed she had only been in London for three weeks and Janine, naturally friendly and feeling sorry for her shy compatriot, immediately invited her to joined her for a drink at the pub round the corner.

“Its great for the craic but I’ll warn you I’m meeting my friend Mary and it’ll be wedding talk, Mary’s getting married in August and I’m her maid of honour.”

Antonia started to make excuses, but Janine would have none of it, “Mary won’t mind, she’s lovely, we were all new girls in the city once, we have to stick together.”

Crowley agreed to come for one drink.

******

When he got back to his flat four hours later, Crowley poured himself a drink, kicked off his shoes and sat down to think. After several drinks and a go on the karaoke, Crowley had learnt a great deal… about Janine. About Mary he had learned that she and Janine had met at a spin class about six months ago, and he had only gleaned that snippet of information because Janine had told him. He had never known anyone keep their cards so close to their chest, and he had played poker in the Kremlin.

Still Mary had been friendly enough, and invited Antonia to join them for a curry after Pilates on Monday night. So, the evening had not been entirely wasted.

Crowley rather thought Antonia was going to prove extremely useful in his campaign, he’d better practice walking in heels.


	21. Sigh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunday - it's a long one

Sherlock was having fun.

Fun had been conspicuous by its absence for most of his life. It had skipped his childhood and adolescence almost entirely, and while it had occasionally accompanied his experiments with certain class A substances during his university career and early days in London, it hadn’t hung around for long. It had arrived and given the impression it might stay around when he had moved into Baker Street with his flatmate and friend John Watson, not that Sherlock had placed too much hope in this. Correctly it seemed, all too soon fun had been banished into exile, along with Sherlock himself, in the dark days of Moriarty’s brief reign and after.

It is said that you don’t miss what you never had. Sherlock had benefited from a loving and stable home, with two parents who loved each other and their offspring, but his mother viewed parenthood as another academic achievement to be obtained, while Father, who did have the capacity for fun, was away a lot of the time on business. They were both baffled by their children but for different reasons. Mycroft had been capable of fun in small doses when Sherlock was very young, but the age difference (forty years by the time Mycroft was eleven) had ultimately proved insurmountable. Sherlock had never had friends, his fierce intelligence, ability to draw the correct conclusion from the minimum of detail, and lack of filter, had alienated almost everyone he had come across. Sometime in his early teens an inept psychologist had branded Sherlock a sociopath and he had carried that label like a shield ever since.

True, John Watson had successfully breeched his defences, with his giggles, and tea, and woolly jumpers. Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson, had started out as useful people to know but had been elevated to the status of friends by dint of tenacity if nothing else. But Ralph Fell, was a whole new ball game, Sherlock supposed this was not the first time a client had crossed the boundaries, Irene Adler drove him crazy with her texting, but she had been surprisingly helpful at times over the years.

Ralph Fell had proved every bit as much of an enigma as Irene Adler, but without the mind games and the underlying battle for dominance. A thoroughly genuine, decent, well-bred Englishman, the sort where what you saw was what you got… except that in the case of Ralph Fell, Sherlock was still convinced that what you saw was an illusion.

Sherlock had needed a project to get him through the pain of planning John’s wedding, a distraction and this mysterious client seemed to fit the bill. What Sherlock hadn’t expected was to have so much fun, at the same time. It appeared that Ralph Fell had turned having fun into an art form, he was a bon viveur, a hedonist, the total opposite of Sherlock’s epitome of self-denial but somehow, in his curiosity to get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding the man, Sherlock had been swept along in his current, only to find that, with his bespoke suits and his Stradivarius, he was perhaps not quite as ascetic after all.

******

Even more than he loved fun, Aziraphale loved having someone to share it with, it was why he enjoyed Crowley’s company so much, despite the obvious conflict of interests. He had been moved to help Sherlock out of compassion for the man’s heartache and out of a sense of fairness, that the side of the angels owed the detective some recompense for what he had endured in their cause. He had not expected to like the man, his reputation as a sociopath went before him, or to find that they had so much in common.

Chinese was not a cuisine that naturally appealed to Aziraphale’s sophisticated and well-honed palate, but he had to agree that the restaurant at the end of Baker Street was superb. The conversation had been stilted at first, Aziraphale had been quite aware of Sherlock’s unsubtle attempts to deduce him, but then they had got onto the subject of Vivaldi and before they knew it, they had been alone with only a couple of yawning waiters for company.

Aziraphale had conjured up tickets for a concert at the Albert Hall the following evening, and then had been invited back to Baker Street where Sherlock had demonstrated how he would have interpreted the Brahms.

Several pleasant excursions had followed that might easily have passed for dates except it was patently obvious that Sherlock’s interest in Ralph Fell was purely professional, while Aziraphale didn’t go in for that sort of thing. His interest in the detective was compassionate concern in the face of his brittle loneliness, broken heart, and evident PTSD. Aziraphale’s goal was not to make Sherlock Holmes fall in love with him but to make Dr Watson jealous, although he would have been a saint (rather than an angel) not to concede that it did give his ego a little boost to be seen out with such a good-looking man.

After two performances of the Royal Ballet ( _Mayerling_ , they had both wept buckets but denied it afterwards), Sherlock had confessed that he had studied ballet for several years in his mother’s attempts to help him channel his energies and command his thoughts. Aziraphale was delighted but then shocked when he discovered that Sherlock had never learned the gavotte.

******

Saturday morning once again found the sitting room rug rolled up and the chairs pushed back, and Mrs Hudson’s iPod brought into play as Ralph Fell attempted to teach Sherlock his favourite (only) dance.

“Three demi Coupés with arm movements, once forwards, once back, that’s right.” Aziraphale commanded Sherlock. “Open pas de bourrée to the right… excellent, now to the left… dessus, dessous…” _It was wonderful,_ Aziraphale thought _, not to have to explain the moves._

“I did so love to dance,” Aziraphale sounded wistful “I used to go to a lovely little club just for the gavotte, such a shame when it closed.”

Sherlock paused, suddenly interested, Ralph never spoke about the past, “where was this?”

“Portland Place, by Riding House Street.”

Sherlock thought quickly, he knew London, he knew London very well, but he couldn’t think of a club near All Souls or the Langham.

“How long ago was this?”

“A few years, the nineteen fift…” Aziraphale clamped his mouth shut swiftly, while Sherlock looked at curiously, “some time in the early noughties,” he finished, trying to look nonchalant. He glanced at Sherlock and immediately knew he hadn’t got away with it, but fortunately Sherlock said nothing.

“Right shall we have another go, how about the Hora Staccato this time. Coupé forward… battu derrière…”

******

John let himself into 221 Baker Street and quietly climbed the stairs to his old flat. From the sitting room he could hear a violin playing a jaunty tune that he vaguely recognised. John smiled, the familiar sound of Sherlock’s violin, and the cheerful music gave him a warm feeling inside, it was one of the many things he had missed while Sherlock had been away.

He pushed the door open and his warm feeling vanished like the morning dew. There in middle of the sitting room, dressed in skin-tight leggings and an oversized t-shirt was Sherlock, face flushed, hair held back with a sweat band and arm in arm with the odious Mr Fell, also red in the face and laughing, and they were engaged in some kind of tap-dance.

Ralph Fell spotted John first and had the nerve to beckon him in. Sherlock killed the music and the temperature in the room dropped by about thirty degrees. John started to make his excuses and back out of the room but again Sherlock allowed his visitor to do the talking.

“No do stay, I am afraid I really must run along, I have a shop to open…” Turning to Sherlock, he said “I will see you later, my dear, eight o’clock at the Savoy.”

Aziraphale clocked that John was watching them intently and was tempted to kiss Sherlock goodbye but instead he turned to the doctor and said, “Do enjoy your dancing lesson, Dr Watson, I hope I haven’t worn him out for you.”

The expression on John’s face was most gratifying, Aziraphale reflected as he made his way down the stairs and out into Baker Street, if looks could kill he would be most inconveniently discorporated, perhaps this plan of Crowley’s would work after all. It was certainly the most fun out of all the suggestions, he was having a great time with all the ‘dates’ he and Sherlock had been on, it was lovely to have someone to share these experiences with.

Aziraphale paused for a momentary pang of regret; _this is why he did not have friends, apart from Crowley that is, being immortal one outlived them all_ , he observed with a sigh.


	22. Texture

Feeling like he was trespassing, John wandered over to the sitting room wall where Sherlock had his planning for the wedding set out like a military campaign. There had been battles fought in world war two that hadn’t been plotted with such meticulous detail. John noticed that more dates had been marked off the calendar, and more items crossed off the list, the day was getting nearer. Perhaps he should get round to booking the honeymoon this weekend, after all.

At least that creep, Ralph Fell had made himself scarce. John had been taken aback to find him there so early on a Saturday morning, had he stayed the night? John didn’t think so, there was no sign of an overnight bag, but then perhaps he didn’t need one. John had an overwhelming temptation to slip into the bathroom and count the toothbrushes.

As soon as Ralph had left, Sherlock had said something about getting changed and disappeared into his bedroom. John opened his mouth to protest, he was here to dance, and Sherlock was dressed for dancing, but he changed his mind; he had seen Sherlock in all manner of guises, from bespoke suits to pyjamas but the dancewear was a new experience entirely, he looked young, athletic and something else entirely. It was probably a good thing that Sherlock was going to change, he was altogether to distracting dressed like a kid from _Fame._

John hadn’t forgotten the bloke on the tube but now he couldn’t understand how he had ever mistaken him for Sherlock, they weren’t in the same league. His musings were interrupted by the return of Sherlock, more conventionally attired in his suit trousers and a white shirt. John sloughed off his jacket and jumper and went to join Sherlock on the ‘dance floor’.

“Let’s warm up with the basic box step, I’ll lead you copy… watch my feet… follow… one two three, two two three, three two three, four two three… keep your eyes on my feet, and again.”

They continued what they had practiced before until Sherlock was satisfied John was more or less keeping up.

“Ok, let’s take a break.” He walked over to the table and poured a glass of water for himself and another one for John.

“I keep meaning to ask you, quite what are you planning for this first dance?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you intending a simple Viennese waltz to a suitable piece of music or some grand choreographed affaire a la _Dirty Dancing_?”

John licked his lips and looked thoughtful but then admitted he had no idea.

“You have no idea.” Sherlock repeated the words with the distain he usually reserved for metropolitan police officers and inept members of the criminal fraternity. “Well, I will ask Mary, but as you are a complete novice, I will suggest a simple waltz. However, I would imagine that Mary will expect at the least a few under arm turns and to end on a dip. We’ll practice those next. Don’t worry about the timings for now.”

Sherlock turned to Mrs Hudson’s iPod and scanned through the tracks until he came to something he thought suitable.

“Now, don’t forget to keep counting, let’s start from the basic position… your left hand…here, keep it there. I’m going to push you out and then swing you back in for the dip, then you can try it.”

John burst out laughing, Sherlock scowled, and dropped his hands. John looked shame faced and apologised.

They began again, the room filled with the sound of David Grey, John and Sherlock twirled round the tiny floor space, until they were back in first position where Sherlock did as he had said, swung John out, back in and dipped him perfectly.

Sherlock walked through the dip with John a couple of times and then announced they would do the whole routine from the top, he restarted the track, and they took their positions. John thought he was beginning to get the hang of it, he was no longer consciously counting in his head which allowed him to listen to the music and the words of the song. They seemed kind of melancholy he thought as he listened more carefully.

_I've been waiting on my own  
Too long  
And when you hold me like you do  
It feels so right, oh now_

They had got back to first position, John swung Sherlock out and swung him back in as he had done before, but Sherlock was surprisingly heavy for a man with no meat on his bones. John overreached on the dip and Sherlock landed on the floor tumbling John down on top of him. They lay there, winded, John was a full stretch above Sherlock, but he didn’t move immediately, while David Grey carried on singing.

_When ya kiss me on that midnight street  
Sweep me off my feet  
Singing ain't this life so sweet  
  
This year's love it better last  
This year's love it better last  
  
'Cause who's to worry if our hearts get torn  
When that hurt gets thrown  
Don't ya know this life goes on_

John began to get his breath back, but still he didn’t move, he inhaled deeply, taking the familiar smell of his friend, that he remembered so well from happier times.

“John…” Sherlock whispered, but he too made no attempt to move.

John said nothing, just reached up and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, something his subconscious had wanted to do for years. It felt like silk, and John wondered if it was Sherlock’s genes or his poncy shampoo that gave it that texture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one nearly broke me.


	23. Verbal

Monday night in the _Naan Better_ , Mary was absently perusing the menu. This was mainly for show, she almost invariably ordered a chicken bhuna and a chapati, but it gave her time to watch the other diners and clock the exits, she never sat with her back to the door. Mary also silently assessed the newcomer, Antonia. She had a very strong suspicion that Antonia had cultivated Janine’s friendship to get close to her, Mary wasn’t put out by this, she’d done it herself many times before, in truth, her friendship with Janine had arisen from similar motives. But if it was the case, she wanted to get a handle on Antonia as quickly as possible, and the most efficient way to achieve that was to invite her in.

Mary was however rather put out by the distraction, ever since the weekend, when John had arrived home from Baker Street early and caught her unawares, she had had other things on her mind. Fortunately, he had been in a foul mood, one of the sullen fits of temper John was occasionally prone to, and that had blinded him to the fact she was as disconcerted as she was by him finding her taking a shower at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. Thank heavens she had changed at her safe house before going back to the flat. 

John could usually be encouraged to snap out of the doldrums by a cup of tea, a Chinese takeaway, and a bit of sex, but she had only managed to engage him in the first two over the weekend and his grumpy mood continued. She would try again tonight, even though it was a ‘school night’. She hadn’t worked out what was behind John’s temper, though she presumed the dancing lesson hadn’t gone according to plan, or perhaps John was still smarting about Sherlock’s plus one. If so, she needed to nip that in the bud. She turned to the menu again. _Nothing too heavy._

“Does anyone want to share a chapati with me?”

******

Antonia was forming her own assessment. Since Thursday Crowley had worked harder than he had in years. The requested file from head office had arrived, it showed that Mary Morstan had died thirty-five years earlier only to come to life again thirty-three years later. The sweet little one that had been Mary Elizabeth Morstan, had gone straight upstairs so there was little information about her, but she certainly wasn’t the woman who was now sat in front of him.

Crowley ordered a beef madras and plain rice, while Janine introduced the other women in the party. They were Erica and Georgie the remaining bridesmaids, and Sophie, who had a small son who was resisting the draft as a page boy. Crowley rather liked the sound of Archie and said so.

The forthcoming wedding was the main topic of conversation round the table, unbelievably tedious but at the same time Crowley stayed tuned in readiness for any snippets of information that he could glean. It soon became apparent that none of the women present knew anything of Mary’s family or history or had known her longer than about a year. Mary seemed to have sprung from the womb fully fledged at the age of thirty-six.

There was a limited to how much Crowley could pump her friends for information in the presence of the woman, so he had to ensure a fair amount of inane conversation regarding wedding fripperies and favours, the church was booked, Mary had her dress, and the bridesmaids’ lilac dresses were on order. Mary gave an outrageous description of John’s best man who was doubling as a wedding planner, which had them all in fits of laughter; Crowley even more so when it turned out the best man was the insufferable Sherlock Holmes who was even at this very moment at a private viewing at the British Library with his angel.

Mary continued, “Still waiting for the photographer to confirm, we got a cancellation…, just need John to get his finger out about the honeymoon… oh… and sort the flowers.”

Crowley jumped, “I might be able to help you there, friend of mine is a florist.”

Mary smiled, she had been subconsciously waiting for a sign, a signal, some hidden clue that Antonia was not all she appeared to be, ever since the woman had inveigled her way into their company the week before. Mary still didn’t know what Antonia wanted with her, was it a contract, a hit? Was it blackmail, was it a threat; rest assured she would find out.

“Thank you, Antonia, perhaps you could give me their number.”

Mary half closed her eyes and inclined her head with a slight nod and gave her most knowing look. Crowley picked up on it immediately, message understood, she had taken the bait. Not all communication needed to be verbal.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little darker episode

There was a faint light behind the shutters of the bookshop/florists as Crowley drove by on his way home from the curry house. Surprised, he pulled over and parked on the double yellow lines outside. Crowley had transmogrified during the journey, (he still hasn’t mastered the art of driving in heels) so he was back in his familiar form when Aziraphale opened the door and silently let him into the shop. As he followed the angel into the back room, Crowley could see that it ws not just the flowers that were drooping.

“I thought you had a date tonight?”

“I was stood up” was Aziraphale’s sad confession

Crowley would have been outraged on his angel’s behalf if he hadn’t been so delighted. “I thought it was all going so well… gourmet dining, virtuoso performances, dancing…”

Aziraphale didn’t reply, he merely filled another glass and handed it to the demon before he topped up his own.

“I thought it was a great success, all going to plan?”

“So, did I!” Aziraphale exclaimed, “So did I. We were having a marvellous time, going about here and there, enjoying ourselves, and it was doing the boy the world of good and Dr Watson did not know what to make of it. I had even managed to wangle an invitation to the wedding as Sherlock’s ‘other half’. My dear, he was fit to be tied, he was so put out. He interrupted us dancing on Saturday morning and his face! It was a picture of jealousy.

“Sherlock and I were supposed to dine at the Savoy that evening, but all I got was a curt little text saying he was indisposed and not a word since. He is not answering the door or returning my calls. I have spoken to Mrs Hudson, that is his landlady, all she can tell me is that he is playing sad music and letting his tea get cold. I am at my wit’s end.”

“You must have been doing something right.” Crowley replied, “John Watson is still in a terrible mood according to his fiancée.”

Aziraphale made a despairing sound, “I was supposed to bring them together not drive a wedge between them, and now my poor boy is in even more of a pickle than before. It is far worse than when the Adler person was playing her mind games, and even when Moriarty was at his zenith.”

Crowley looked up, something the angel had said had rung a bell. “I’ve read that name just recently…”

“Which one, Irene Adler…” Aziraphale’s went wide with shock. “not Moriarty?” he whispered.

“Moriarty… the little Irish fella.” Crowley spoke the name with a kind of reverence, “what did you say happened to him?”

“I said nothing,” Aziraphale said sharply, but then relented and placed two fingers in the shape of a gun against the side of his head and mouthed the word _BOOM!_

“Must dash.” Crowley announced draining his glass and standing up quickly.

“But you only just arrived” Aziraphale protested.

Crowley, however, was already on his way out through the shop.

“Where are you going?” Aziraphale called after the departing demon.

“HQ.” Crowley shouted without looking back.

******

Crowley avoided headquarters a much as possible, its associations were far from happy ones, even for a demon, but needs must, and he was cautiously optimistic that at this time on a Monday night he might slip past reception without too much difficulty.

He was almost right, there was only one elderly demon on the desk, unfortunately he had a peaked cap and a clipboard.

Good evening Sir, how can I help you?”

“I’m here to see one of the inmates.”

“Visiting hours are between 1400- and 1800-hours Monday to Friday, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

Crowley scowled, _trust me to get a jobsworth_ he thought before trying again.

“It’s a matter of life and death.” He pleaded.

“Do you have a chitty?” The demon asked.

“A what?”

“A visiting order, you need apply for a visiting order, in triplicate no less than fourteen days in advance of your intended visit, and have it signed by a senior demon and returned stamped, one copy for you, one for me and one for the file.”

Crowley, the terror of traffic wardens faced defeat, there was only one thing he could think of it.

“DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?” he shouted.

“No Sir” the jobsworth replied.

“Good!” Crowley replied, changing into his snake form, and slithering through the bars of the nearest cell.

******

It did not take long for Crowley to track down the object of his visit. Moriarty was still as sharp as ever, though the Westwood was somewhat contaminated by the close environs of Hell. Moriarty was playing solitaire, with an equally grimy pack of cards. Without looking up, he said in his distinctive Irish accent.

“I said I wasn’t to be disturbed!”

Crowley changed back into his human form but kept the scales; they were handy if he needed to make a point more forcefully.

“One question. Who is Mary Morstan?”

Moriarty looked up, “Ooo, snake, so easy to skin… Hello handsome, how kind of you to call.”

“Cut that out, just tell me. Mary Morstan, who is she?”

“Can’t help you. Not a name I am familiar with.”

“You’re lying, I think you know who she is, even if you don’t know the name, she’s using now… do you recognise this description… late thirties, romantic, tattoo, appendix scar, not a natural blonde…?”

“That’s more than one question.”

“Don’t play games with me.” Crowley snapped.

“Pity, I rather think I wouldn’t mind playing games with you.” Moriarty gave his sweetest smile.

Crowley sneered, “You are not in my league. Now Mary Morstan, fiancée of John Watson, who is she?”

“John Watson’s has a fiancée? Oh, Sherly won’t like that, won’t like that at all… and what a fiancée! ”

“I know you know who she is.” Crowley slowly walked round Moriarty’s cell, “Quite a pad you have here, you like it, don’t you? No one bothers you, place to yourself.”

Turning to the consulting criminal, Crowley reared up and grabbed him by the neck, “I could make things very unpleasant for you, no more designer suits and solitary confinement, I could get you moved to the pits. Does that jog your memory?”

Crowley dropped the man like a hot potato; Moriarty, coolly stood up and dusted himself down.

“Since you asked so nicely, I’ll give you a little clue, Mary Morstan is no saint. That’s all I can tell you.” 

Crowley realised that was the only information he was going to get; he could hardly frighten the man to death, he was dead already. He turned back into his snake form to make his way back to the escalators.

“Remember, Mary Morstan is no saint,” Moriarty called after him.

“Don’t worry,” Crowley replied, “I won’t forget.”


	25. Mystic

After Crowley had run from his shop, a demon on a mission, apparently, Aziraphale had given himself a good talking to. This was not the time to be sitting in the doldrums, he was an angel and a principality, he could act decisively if necessary.

He took a large piece of cardboard and the marker pen that he occasionally used for sending books through the post, when he ran out of excuses not to sell them, and wrote a few words on it. Then, something of an afterthought, he took his usual pen and wrote a shorter note for Crowley just in case the demon returned to the shop in his absence; satisfied he had covered all bases, Aziraphale transformed himself into his Ralph Fell persona and went outside.

Early in their association Sherlock had unexpectedly warned Ralph Fell that his brother might kidnap him. Aziraphale had found the whole suggestion preposterous but had subsequently been aware that the CCTV cameras did seem to move on their own accord when he was in the street, and he had been conscious on more than one occasion of a car following him through Soho and had been forced to use his supernatural abilities to avoid any inconvenience. But this evening he took his hastily prepared sign and walked to the corner of Old Compton Street and stood, holding it, in full view of the CCTV cameras there. He realised he must look rather strange when a passer-by pressed a crumpled five-pound note into his hand, but just as he was beginning to wonder if he had miscalculated a sleek, black Daimler drew up at his side. Aziraphale got in.

Sherlock had also mentioned Mycroft’s penchant for dusty warehouses, Aziraphale did not like the sound of that and instead instructed the driver to take him to the Diogenes Club. The driver appeared to be contemplating disobeying, but Aziraphale nipped that thought in the bud, and the Daimler was soon gliding down Shaftesbury Avenue towards Pall Mall. The angel settled back to enjoy the ride.

At the Diogenes Club, Aziraphale pressed the fiver, now restored to pristine condition, into the hand of the major-domo and was shown into the strangers’ room to await the arrival of his prospective kidnapper. At his request, the waiter brought him a crème de menthe frappe and some ten minutes later, Mycroft Holmes.

The British Government was rather put out, ever since his driver had arrived at the appointed warehouse with an empty car and the information that Mr Fell was waiting for Mycroft at his club he had felt less and less in command of the situation. Mycroft had no alternative than to tell the driver to take him to the Diogenes.

In the strangers’ room, his visitor seemed to have made himself quite at home, sipping at a glass of some vile looking green liquid. As Mycroft entered the room Aziraphale stood up and could not resist uttering the immortal words.

“Ah Mr Holmes, I have been expecting you.”

Mycroft recognised the reference and was even more discombobulated, if such a thing was possible, especially when the man, his guest Mycroft supposed, came forward and peered at him inquisitively.

“Have we met before?” Aziraphale asked in a curious tone.

“I don’t believe so.”

“Sometime during the war…” Aziraphale mused.

“War, what war?” Mycroft replied sharply.

Aziraphale suddenly remembered where he was, and more importantly what century he was in, “forget I said that.”

“What war?” Mycroft repeated, “The Gulf War? Iran-Iraq?”

Aziraphale decided it was best to ignore his faux pas and get straight down to business.

“Neither. Now, Mr Holmes, thank you for agreeing to meet me. I should like the opportunity to discuss your brother.”

******

Mycroft and Aziraphale were getting on like a house on fire. Once Mycroft had recognised Aziraphale as one of the privately educated, independently meaned, bookish types that had littered the library of his Oxford college, and once Aziraphale had stripped away Mycroft’s pomposity to reveal the genuine concern for his younger brother underneath they discovered they had a great deal in common.

Just as they were despairing of ever finding a solution to the eternal triangle that Sherlock now found himself a part of, Aziraphale crinkled his nose and smelt a whiff of brimstone in the air as the club servant knocked on the door and announced, “Mr Anthony J Crowley.”

Aziraphale could tell from the faintly scorched air about him, that the demon had been up to, or rather down to, no good in the hours since he had flown out of the florist shop in Soho. This did not surprise the angel, what did surprise him, was that Crowley and Mycroft Holmes obviously knew each already, and very well indeed.

Mycroft offered Crowley a chair and had the waiter bring the sixteen-year-old malt and another glass, and then said to Aziraphale, dryly.

“I take it you two are acquainted.”

This was so inadequate a description of an association going back more than six thousand years, that Aziraphale merely nodded.

Mycroft, turned then to Crowley, “And I take it that you have become embroiled in this hare-brained scheme to turn Dr Watson’s attentions from his fiancée Mary Morstan to my brother Sherlock.”

Crowley sprung to the defence of his angel. “It’s essential. Mary Morstan is not who she claims to be.”

Mycroft sighed, “I have been aware of that since she first crossed Dr Watson’s path a year ago, though quite who she is has eluded me, despite the fact I put my best team on it. ”

Crowley’s face took on a self-satisfied expression, “I might be able to help you there.” He announced with great aplomb, “I’ll give you a clue.”

Mycroft was not one for playing games, but he made an exception in view of Crowley’s special status. The demon did not say where he had had the clue from, and Mycroft was enough of the dedicated public servant not to ask the man to divulge his sources.

“Do share.”

“It is simply this. ‘Mary Morstan is no saint.’”

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Aziraphale replied, but Mycroft pursed his lips and looked thoughtful before repeating the words slowly under his breath.

Mycroft Holmes, who had been able to solve ‘ _The Times’_ crossword puzzle in an average of seven minutes thirty-two seconds since the age of eight, suddenly mirrored Crowley’s satisfied expression.

“Well done, Master Crowley, well done.”

“Would you care to explain?” Aziraphale asked, sounding as petulant as permissible for an angel.

“Mary Morstan is no saint.” Mycroft spoke as if addressing a particularly backward child, or his younger brother, “the abbreviation for a saint in this country is ST, but Mary Morstan is not a saint. Remove those letters from the name Morstan and what you are left with is MORAN.”

Mycroft paused for effect, “Rosamund Moran, crack shot, sniper, paid assassin, contract killer and Moriarty’s chief lieutenant. On the most wanted list of one hundred and forty-two countries, sixty-three of which still have capital punishment. Hiding in plain sight as John Watson’s fiancée, very clever.”

Aziraphale, who had been listening to Mycroft with increasing alarm, protested at the mention of capital punishment.

Mycroft turned to Crowley and said, “I thought he was one of your lot.”

“Other side.” Crowley answered.

“Really?” Mycroft drew out the word and widened his eyes. “Very well. It is likely that Ms Morstan will have information that would be of use to us, by us I mean Her Majesty’s government. I may be able to broker a deal, make her an offer she can’t refuse.

“If you would excuse me, I have some calls to make. I will be in touch regarding arrangements.”

At this Mycroft stood up, shook hands with his visitors and left the room.

“What do you think he meant by that?” Aziraphale asked.

“I imagine that he is going to persuade Mary Morstan to turn Queen’s evidence in return for a place on a witness protection scheme somewhere, America or Australia perhaps. Effectively killing a number of birds with one stone.”

“Do you think she’ll take it?”

“I would but I can’t speak for her,” Crowley replied. “I’m a demon, not a mystic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sadly had a poorly couple of days so have fallen behind with this challenge, I have the last three chapters drafted out so will finish even if it is a few days late!


	26. Ears

_Trust no one._

That was her motto, and her father’s before. _Trust no-one, not even your own family._

Mary Morstan had taken a day off work, in order to meet Antonia, Janine’s friend from the gym who knows a florist, to finally choose her wedding flowers. She had her list, bouquets for herself and her three bridesmaids, buttonholes for the groom, the best man, and the ushers. There is a noticeable absence of parents on both hers and John’s side, Mary had already decided to walk down the aisle on her own, but she wondered if a corsage for Mrs Hudson would be a nice touch, she was the closest John had to a mother after all.

Ready to leave, Mary checked her handbag one more time… purse, phone, a scrap of the material for the bridesmaids’ dresses, keys, oyster card, gun. _Remember, trust no one_.

******

On the tube journey into Soho, Mary, ever watchful, allowed her mind to wander just a little. It seemed incongruous that she of all people should be engaged in something so utterly domestic as picking flowers for a wedding. She had never imagined that she could grow old, settle down, come to terms with the past and stop running.

If she were being romantic, she would have said her life had changed when she met John Watson, if she were being honest, she would have said it all changed when Jim Moriarty died.

Of course, she hadn’t known he was dead, not right away. He had assigned John Watson to her as her mark, told her to stay with him, and only to stand down once she heard that Sherlock Holmes was dead. This she had, it had been all over the news for days, but she had never quite believed it. So, she had continued to keep tabs on John Watson, waiting for the call from Jim, which never came.

Time went on, she had begun to hear rumours, that Moriarty was dead, that Sherlock had killed him before he killed himself; that Mycroft Holmes had had him killed in revenge for his brother’s death; that he had killed himself in a fit of pique once his greatest adversary was no more. Mary was sceptical, she was working at the surgery by this time, her nursing qualifications were genuine, even if her certificates were forged; it put her in the perfect place to keep an eye on John Watson.

Mary had already realised that physically Dr Watson was her type, attractive in a stocky, military way, intelligent but not as much as she was, honourable but with an edge to it. Turned out he was good in bed, which was a bonus, a man worth hanging up your holster for. What surprised her and finally convinced her that Sherlock’s death was genuine, was that John Watson was completely poleaxed by grief at the loss of his friend. Although that made her job easier, lending a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on. Within weeks John was practically living at her flat in Kensal Green, and within months he had asked her to marry him.

She was fond of John and on the whole she liked their life together, it was in marked contrast to the life she had had for much of the previous fourteen years, but then again, perhaps not, it was somehow to be expected that her fiancé’s best man had faked his death for over two years.

Mary smiled at that thought but only briefly, things had been going fine, despite the upheaval to their relationship caused by the return of Sherlock Holmes from the dead. But just recently John had been acting strangely, she was aware of it even though she had hardly seen him. John had started staying up later and later, until after even she was asleep; apart from last night when she had got in from the gym and found him already in bed, dead to the world. Could it be that John was getting cold feet?

Perhaps it was time to seal the deal, jump the gun, make sure of him, after all she wasn’t getting any younger. She could easily accidentally on purpose forget her cap wasn’t in place the next time she got John in the right mood. Because Mary Morstan was not about to forfeit John Watson. He was her insurance policy, even more so since Sherlock Holmes had come back from the dead. Marriage to John Watson would protect her, Sherlock would see to that, and Mycroft would end up protecting all three of them.

******

Mary had arranged to meet Antonia at her friend’s florist shop, she was a little wary, she’d never noticed a florist in this part of town before, but then she supposed she had never been one for buying flowers before.

Antonia was waiting for her on the pavement outside, dressed for the office in a two-piece suit and four-inch heels, Mary wondered if she worked in the area, and then realised how little she knew about the woman, she didn’t even know her surname. She was slipping, domesticity was making her careless.

However, the shop appeared kosher, filled to the brim with the most beautiful blooms imaginable. There wasn’t anyone on the till, which pleased Mary, she hated being pounced on the minute she walked into a shop, and it allowed her to wander around without having to say, ‘just looking’. Mary was soon caught up with examining the various displays like they were exhibits in a museum. Apart from roses she knew nothing about flowers, _weren’t they all supposed to have a particular meaning? The language of flowers,_ Mary seemed to recall.

She was brought back from her musing by the sound of Antonia sneezing loudly and then doing something with her handkerchief. Mary immediately thought it might be signal but there didn’t seem to be any response. When she looked Antonia’s way again, the woman was dabbing her eyes.

“What is it?” Mary asked.

“Hay fever.” Antonia sniffed her reply, “Blasted flowers.”

Mary stifled a laugh, and instantly felt more secure, they, whoever they might be, would hardly have chosen a florist’s as a rendezvous with a contact who was allergic to pollen.

The sneezing had caused a salesman to appear from the back of the shop, he was a smartly dressed, pleasant, fussy man, with beautiful hands and quite obviously gayer than springtime. He introduced himself as Mr Fell, the proprietor and went into a stream of consciousness rapture over the colour of the bridesmaids’ dresses before talking nineteen to the dozen about teardrops, tussie-mussies, posies, presentations and pomanders. Mary soon found herself swept up in his enthusiasm and confessed that she knew nothing about flowers.

“Let me take you under my wing,” Mr Fell offered, “now tell me about your dress, traditional or modern?”

He started to recite a litany of flower names, some she recognised, chrysanthemums and dahlias, and some she didn’t, bouvardia and gypsophila. He seemed very keen on begonias, cyclamen and mock orange blossom and suggested a Biedermeier bouquet. Mary had no idea what one of those was and said so. Mr Fell produced one and held it out to her; even though the bouquet was made of silk roses it looked stunning.

“Both hands my dear, just so.” Mr Fell started fussing round her, and Mary dropped her handbag to accommodate him. “Right, let’s take a look in the mirror.”

Mary let him guide her over to a far wall where there was a full-length standing mirror. Mary was stood in front of it, admiring the flowers when a man came into view behind her and a voice said.

“Ah, a rose for a Rose, how fitting.”

Mary swung round, but she had left her handbag where she dropped it when she had been handed the bouquet, even now she could see Antonia had picked it up and was holding it. She could still try to make a run for it, but at the back of the shop she was the furthest from the door and no doubt Mycroft had the place covered. Anyway, she was wise enough to know when her cover was well and truly blown.

******

Antonia kept her covered, while Mr Fell locked the shop, and Mycroft Holmes addressed her like a public meeting.

“I am going to be blunt, Miss Moran,” he began, “as far as the British government is concerned you should be arrested and brought to trial for those misdemeanours that have taken place on British soil.”

“Alternatively, it could be considered in the government’s best interests to expediate your extradition to whichever sovereign state can establish a higher claim on your person and get their papers in order soonest. You must be aware that in many of those states the death penalty is still legal.”

Mary did not give Mycroft the satisfaction of acknowledging the implied threat in his comment, of course she was aware.

“However, I would like to propose a third option, one which you might be interested to hear…”

Rosamund knew what was coming next. She looked at the florist, Mr Fell, then at Antonia and finally at her nemesis, Mycroft Holmes and realised that Mary Morstan had reached the end of the road. She had enjoyed being Mary Morstan, she would have loved being Mary Watson, but no doubt she would come to like whoever she was to be next.

She gave the three of them her broadest smile and said, “I’m all ears”


	27. Fashion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there.

Mary had gone.

John had returned home from work to find her engagement ring on the kitchen table, alongside a note. It said she was very sorry, that she never meant to hurt him, but she couldn’t marry him. She was still in love with her ex, David, and had gone off to South Africa with him; by the time he read this, she would already be on the plane.

John tore the letter into pieces and went to put them down the waste disposal, then hesitated. It was probably better to be known as Mary’s jilted fiancé than suspected of being her murderer.

He poured himself a scotch and wandered around the flat. Now that he knew that Mary was gone it was apparent that her things were missing. He was amazed at what appeared to have been the calm efficiency of her packing. Everything appeared to have gone, from her box of tampons in the bathroom cabinet to the half-read paperback on the bedside table. Books, clothes, toiletries, shoes, all gone.

In the sitting room, John opened the desk drawer where they kept their important papers, Mary’s passport, medical card and birth certificate were missing, but she had left the cheque book and bank card for their joint account.

John smelt a rat, picked up his mobile phone and dialed the number he was given some three years earlier, on a different danger night. He didn’t know if the number was still valid, but it turned out that it was. He downed the rest of his scotch, put on his coat, locked up the half empty flat, and went outside to await the arrival of the car.

******

John had questions, Mycroft Holmes answered them succinctly and without sugaring the pill. He gave John a brief resumé of Mary Morstan’s career to date, without revealing her real name or her present whereabouts.

The deceit, the deaths, the multiple identities, the hidden bank accounts, each disclosure landed on John like a blow, leaving him gasping for air and disorientated. Mary had come to him during the still dark days of Sherlock’s demise, and given John a reason to keep going, a reason that was now revealed as artificial and contrived.

“No more lies,” John ranted and raved, shouted at Mycroft and made as if to strike the man, but he never flinched. It is this that finally convinced John that the British Government had known the true identity of his former fiancée for less that forty-eight hours.

Mycroft offered his assistance with paperwork, which John less than politely declined. Mycroft inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement and then said, “At least allow me to arrange a car to take you home.”

It is getting late, John was exhausted and common sense prevailed, he didn’t bat an eyelid when the car dropped him at Baker Street.

******

Sherlock was at home, dressed in soft pyjamas, and his second-best dressing gown, he was toying with his violin, working on the outline of a waltz for John and Mary’s first dance. Assuming he was still invited after what Sherlock had stored in his mind palace as ‘the incident’ that had occurred the previous Saturday.

_John had run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair._

_John had placed his lips on Sherlock’s._

_They had kissed, more than once, and stayed like that on the floor for precisely seventeen minutes._

Then John had got up, adjusted himself, grabbed his coat and ran out of the flat. Sherlock hadn’t heard from him since, no less than he expected.

Sherlock had let the battery run down on his phone; Mrs Hudson was out for the evening. He was quite content to stay alone, at home with his memories. He liked composing, it soothed his soul, but it was hard not to let the waltz turn into a dirge.

The front door banged, quick footsteps pounded up the seventeen stairs and John launched into the sitting room. Sherlock took one swift appraising glance and asked.

“Is she dead?”

******

Sherlock listened to John as he ranted and raved, it seemed there was plenty more where that came from. He found the good scotch from the back of the cupboard and watched while John drank himself into oblivion, and then helped his friend up to his old room, where he promptly fell asleep. Sherlock draped the quilt over John and went back downstairs, _into battle._

He found his phone and put it onto charge, when it came back to life, he saw he had twelve missed calls all from Mycroft. Sherlock rarely voluntarily contacted his brother, but he made an exception in this case. Mycroft answered the phone out of breath.

Sherlock guessed Mycroft had been working out but resisted the temptation to rib him about it. There were more serious matters to discuss.

At the end of the call, Sherlock knew more than John, but less than his brother, and had no idea how close he had been at one stage, to losing his life at Mary’s hands.

There were arrangements to be cancelled, deposits forfeited, items to be returned, Sherlock handled them all, with the same manic efficiency he had applied to the planning of them. He also phoned in sick to the surgery on John’s behalf, they were understanding, but distracted by the loss of their practice nurse.

Sherlock sent emails and texts, and the occasional letter, explaining the situation, while John hibernated upstairs in his old room, only appearing occasionally for more whiskey and speculate on how he could ever show his face at work again.

Lestrade called round and made an inappropriate joke about ‘hiding the body’ which John took exception to, although Lestrade apologised when he saw the photos of Mary and David taken in front of Table Mountain on her Facebook page. Sherlock had to admit whoever Mycroft had got to do the photoshop had done an excellent job; he never found out, and when he checked again the page had been taken down.

John and Mary’s various friends accepted the news without much comment although John agonised over what was said behind his back. The vicar sent a card which John threw on the fire. Of Mary’s particular friends, the bridesmaids and Archie’s mum, only Janine seemed sceptical about the story of South Africa and Mary’s long-lost love but then she had grown up in Ireland during the Troubles and knew more than she would care to admit about disappearances and witness protection.

Time went on, Mycroft sent a couple of his oppos to clear the Kensal Green flat, and soon all John Watson’s worldly goods were installed back at 221b. There were more of them these days and Sherlock was obliged to undertake a fair amount of rationalisation to accommodate them, but he didn’t object. They still hadn’t mentioned ‘the incident’ but Sherlock was just delighted to have John back under his roof, whatever the circumstances.

John discovered that his joint savings account with Mary was considerably healthier than he had believed which allowed him to end his contract with the surgery and avoid the unnecessary gossip working there would have entailed. A month after Mary vanished, it was almost as if she had never existed, John was not one to let the grass grow under his feet, he had cut out the drinking, rearranged his room, and had started looking for a new position while checking for cases on Sherlock’s email. All that was missing was an entry on Tinder.

******

Sherlock had been over to Barts to examine a corpse that had been found in a cellar in Battersea with no apparent cause of death or distinguishing marks. John had cried off because, despite the fact he liked Molly, her particular brand of sympathy, puppy eyes and arm patting, wore a bit thin after the first half a dozen times. John had mentioned something about a Bond film that night, and a takeaway, pleased that things seemed to be revert to the way they had been three years before, Sherlock had promised to be home in good time.

The moment Sherlock stepped into 221b he knew something was different. He shrugged off his coat and placed it on the hook and went through to the sitting room. The chairs were pushed pack and the rug rolled up, and Mrs Hudson’s iPod was playing softly. John was dressed in a familiar plaid shirt that brought out the blue of his eyes, and his smartest trousers, freshly showered and shaved, looking more handsome that Sherlock could believe. He held out his arms to Sherlock and smiled.

“We never did finish that dance!”

_Say something, I'm giving up on you_

_I'll be the one, if you want me to  
Anywhere, I would've followed you_

_Say something, I'm giving up on you_

_And I am feeling so small  
It was over my head  
I know nothing at all_

_And I will stumble and fall_  
I'm still learning to love  
Just starting to crawl

_Say something, I'm giving up on you_

_I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you_

_Anywhere, I would've followed you…_

Much later, curled on the couch together they reviewed the events of the last weeks. John tried, unsuccessfully, to apologise to Sherlock for running out on him after their first kiss. Sherlock demurred.

“You had your reasons, you were after all, engaged to another.”

John made up for this by kissing his Sherlock some more.

“What made you go to Mycroft?” Sherlock asked when he got his mouth back.

“Because it didn’t ring true, the note, the ex, South Africa, all of it. Mary was never impulsive in all the time I knew her, she was thoughtful, calculated, exact… She wouldn’t just take off like that. I went to Mycroft instead of going to the police.”

“And when he told you the truth?”

“I suspect he told me a version of the truth, to be honest I was relieved. You see, I thought she had found out, when I saw the ring, before I read the note, I thought she suspected, and I felt guilty, that I had let her, and myself down, let you down too. It was going to be a bloody mess, and then…

“I hope she’s happy wherever she is, but I couldn’t have stayed with her, not once I knew what I know now, so it worked out for the best, what’s a little embarrassment to win the man of my dreams.”

Sherlock blushed, and John kissed him again.

“I could get used to this.” He whispered.

“Why did you make me wait so long, after you came back here?” Sherlock asked.

“Need to get my head together, needed to make sure your boyfriend was off the scene.”

“My who?” Sherlock sat up, surprised.

“Your swain, Ralph, Rafe whatever his name was, courting you with ballet and billet doux, dancing arm in arm, made me see red, I don’t mind confessing, wondering what else you might be getting up to.”

Sherlock smiled and snuggled in closer to his John. “There was never anything for you to be jealous about... I was always true to you in my fashion.”


	28. List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ending and a continuation...

The blinds were down, the shutters closed, and the door locked. Crowley was relieved to see Aziraphale had reverted to his old line of business, as a purveyor of rare and second hand books, however this was no consolation if he couldn’t get the angel to answer the door, he was tempted to change into his original shape and slither through the letterbox but he guessed that might alarm the passers-by. Instead, he tried knocking harder and let off a few sparks and a plume of smoke.

This seemed to do the trick as the door opened a crack, and then wider when Aziraphale recognised his caller, “Oh it’s you!” he said, before he turned back to the darken interior of the shop. Crowley stepped in, closed and locked the door behind him, and followed Aziraphale to the small back room of the shop. He had never quite understood the meaning of the word ‘crestfallen’ until now.

He produced a pound coin from his pocket and handed it to Aziraphale, it was a concession guaranteed to cheer the angel up, but not today.

Crowley glared at the kettle on the stove and it began to whistle, he made Aziraphale a cup of tea and sat down to listen to angel’s tale of woe. It did, as Crowley had surmised, concern the insufferable Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson.

“I thought you’d be pleased.” Crowley interrupted.

“Oh, I am, I am. It is so good to see the dear boy so happy.”

“Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

“It was, it was.” Aziraphale protested but there was something wistful in his tone that was evident to someone who had known him for over six thousand years. Crowley stayed quiet, knowing that the angel would eventually speak.

“It’s just… that… I miss him.”

Crowley didn’t have to ask who Aziraphale was referring to, he bristled with jealousy and the air around him became a green mist, with a hint of sulphur.

“Not like that,” the angel said hurriedly, “It was just nice to have someone to go about with.”

If Aziraphale thought he had placated the demon with this comment, he was mistaken. Crowley’s mouth set in a grim, thin lipped smile, “I thought you had me to go about with?”

“Yes, but you must agree we do not have a lot in common.”

Crowley thought that being the only two full time supernatural beings on the planet for the past six millennia was plenty to be going on with, but he kept that to himself.

“It was fun, teaching the dear boy how to enjoy himself, going to concerts and the like, now I suppose he has everything he wants at home. Such a shame, I had quite a number of excursions planned. Sherlock used to call it my bucket list.”

Crowley looked askance. “Are you sure that’s what you meant? Do you know what a bucket list is?”

“Not exactly.” Aziraphale admitted, “Something to carry your dreams in?”

“Something like that.” Crowley agreed, not wishing to add to the angel’s miseries. “So, what was on your bucket list?”

“Tonight, I have tickets for the Barbican, Beethoven, Shostakovich and Paganini, such an interesting programme,” he sighed “I suppose I will just have to go back to doing things on my own.”

“You could phone Sherlock, see if he is free tonight.”

“I don’t think so, he has Dr Watson now, and humans have such little time… that’s why it is never wise to make friends with mortals, they always end up leaving you behind.”

The angel looked so sad that Crowley made a rash decision.

“I could go with you.”

“Really?” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up and he smiled, but almost immediately his face fell again, “You would hate it, it isn’t the kind of music you like, your be-bop.”

“You’ve got me all wrong,” Crowley protested, “I have very eclectic tastes.”

“Really?” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“How long have we known each other? Would I lie to you?”

“Obviously, you are a demon it’s what you do.”

Crowley stood up, stretched, walked round to where the angel was sitting, unfolded a wing and placed it gently round his angel’s shoulders.

“Do you know what a bucket list is? It is named after ‘kick the bucket’. Humans make them, they are a list of all the things a person wants to do before they die.”

“Really? That sounds rather sad.”

“For mortals, perhaps, but for us it is a challenge. We have all the time in the world, at least until either your lot or my lot decide to play games again. Your list will never be completed, there will always be new things to add, somewhere a new sushi master is being born, while a four-year-old genius is tuning her violin ready for her Albert Hall debut in ten years’ time.

“Just think about it Aziraphale, there will always be something to look forward to, always new things to discover.”

Aziraphale snuggled a little closer to the demon, it really was quite pleasant under Crowley’s wing, despite the faintly lingering smell of sulphur.

“So,” Crowley asked, hopefully, “what else is on your list?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well I got there, only three days late, big shout out to ohlooktheresabee for a great set of prompts. see you in June.


End file.
